


Smoke

by treenahasthaal



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Danger, Drama, Echo of Bespin, Explosions, Fighting for life, Forced Fighting, Friendship, Horror, Injury, Other, Post-ESB, Psychological Torture, Skywalker Family Drama, Torture, Using The Force, Whump, betrayed friendship, blowing stuff up, hurt little comfort, machinations, unintentional sexual innuendo depending on how you interpret it, warfare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-02-19 01:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22036090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treenahasthaal/pseuds/treenahasthaal
Summary: When their mission to Abarim was a bust the small Rebel squad, including Luke Skywalker, decided to take matters into their own hands. Their ships were discovered, their presence known - so lets blow stuff up.
Relationships: Angst - Relationship, Drama - Relationship, Father and Son - Relationship, Luke Skywalker & Anakin Skywalker, Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader, family? - Relationship
Comments: 29
Kudos: 138
Collections: 2019 Star Wars Secret Santa





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpellCleaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpellCleaver/gifts).



> The story was written for the Secret Santa Fic Exchange conceived and driven by SilverDaye. My gift is for Spellcleaver - an author that I have grown to admire for her talent in story telling. I hope, really hope, that she likes it. 
> 
> The opening scenes of this story were concocted several years ago during a brainstorming conversation between myself and my best buddy Kazlynh (check out her fic on FF.N) and includes a scene that was originally written for Wedge Antilles, that I then changed some time ago for Luke, and then during writing this decided, that Nah, it was for Wedge after all. Sorry Wedge.
> 
> I cannot leave this note without remembering my dear, sweet, pain in the ass big sister who passed away on the 23rd of December. Writing this has been therapeutic and has helped keep me sane and focused. I love you, sis.

** Smoke **

** Part One **

“Go! Go, go, go!”

Luke Skywalker heard Wedge’s warning, and with the rest of the Alliance squad members, he turned and sprinted from the cavernous Imperial storeroom. They had thirty short minutes to get the hell away from the area before their strategically placed explosives blew this place to smithereens; taking with it six TIE fighters, three AT-ATs, seven AT-STs and a copious number of crates full of ammunition, blaster packs, power cells, seismic charges, boxes of thermal detonators, explosives, blaster rifles, cannons and hand guns.

It was going to be quite the show – which they would be able to see from a safe distance, if they could get away before it all went to hell.

It was a waste of weaponry, Luke knew, a terrible waste of money and resources that the Alliance could have used, but the small twelve man squad with their two escort pilots, had no way of loading up and transporting any of it; their shuttle and X-Wings had been found by the Imperials and it was sheer luck that, thus far, the Imperials on Abarim appeared to have no idea where the infiltrating Rebel squad was, or what their mission had been.

It wasn’t blowing up this warehouse, that’s for sure. The Alliance hadn’t even known the store had existed, but when they had stumbled upon it, the temptation had proved too much for them.

Let’s hit the Empire where it hurts, they had agreed. Especially now, after the losses at Hoth, after the loss of Han Solo and Luke’s own experiences on Bespin. A little revenge may be the only highlight of this particular trip behind enemy lines.

 _“A little payback, dad,”_ Luke had thought, and then shook himself. It was becoming too easy to think of Vader as his father, and Yoda would not be proud of the darker thoughts that seemed to come quicker to his mind since Bespin.

_Son of a Sith…_

Luke rounded another corner, his prosthetic fist tight on his blaster, hearing the pounding bootsteps of his squad mates around him as they followed him. Time was ticking down, they had to get out of here. He barrelled on down the long connecting hallway that lead to a massive blast door and the T-junction beyond, not even caring at this point if they ran into a whole battalion of stormtroopers, just wanting to get out of this outpost before everything went sky high.

There was a warning in the Force, a tightening of the muscles at the back of his neck; something was wrong, suddenly and deadly wrong.

“Move!” He screamed at his companions, at Wedge bringing up the rear. “Move!”

Skidding to a stop, he allowed the troopers to pass him. “Go!” he echoed Wedge’s earlier shout. “Go! Get to the blast doors!”

The durasteel may not hold, but at least they may afford them some protection from the looming explosion.

“Luke?!” Wedge questioned, breathlessly, looking suddenly frightened, sweating in his flightsuit.

“No, time!” Luke told him, starting to run again, now he was bringing up the rear.

There was a distant “whump!” and, still running, Wedge glanced over his shoulder at Luke with wide, horrified eyes. “It’s early!” He tripped, stumbled and Luke grabbed him, pulled him up and pushed him on.

“Go!”

A muffled thud, a low rumble.

“Shit,” Luke breathed, head down and sprinting, “shit.”

The first members of the squad were passing the blast doors when the first true explosion rocked the building, and it was Luke who stumbled this time as the corridor shook; the floor undulating. He picked himself up, sprinted on.

Another explosion and now a surge, a roar, a deafening thunder.

Luke looked up, saw the last stragglers passing the blast door, saw Wedge still a few metres from it. Luke lifted his blaster and pulled off a shot, it zipped passed Antilles and struck the side control panel and the heavy doors began to fall together. He felt, rather than heard, Wedge’s cry of horror.

Luke dropped his blaster, lifted his hands and pushed Wedge forward, sending his old friend lurching through the closing space.

There was heavy breath of hot wind behind him and he pivoted on the balls of his feet, now running backward, and sent his hands outward, palms up, pushing with all his strength, trying with all his will not to crumple in panic at the wall of roiling, raging fire that was charging toward him in the confining corridor.

“Luke!” Wedge screamed. “Luke!”

The storm of flames struck his Force barrier and Luke was driven back a few metres by the sheer power and strength of the rushing explosions. Luke planted his feet, body bent forward, arms out, hands high, head down to keep from being forced backward.

Just a few more seconds, a few more and the squad will have some protection.

_But you won’t…_

Another tremendous blast and the roof began to cave in, the floor buckled, a pair of hands grabbed the back of his jumpsuit, jerked him backward and to the side, he lost his grip on the Force and fire surged. It all happened at once; a flash of fire, a searing hot pain, a heavy slam on his right arm, excruciating agony and burst of deafening noise blasted…

_…the sonics!_

…was the only thought before the wave of sweeping debris hit. Then all was dark.

ooOOoo

His ears were ringing; a constant high-pitched whine piercing his head. He winced, felt nausea churn in his belly, he tried to move and groaned as a dull agony purled through out his body in sickening waves.

“Shhh,” is whispered in his ear. The sound is muted, muffled, heard through ears that felt stuffed and heavy with pressure. He tried to yawn to clear it, it hurt. His face hurt, it felt tight, hot, scalding. “Stay quiet. Stay dead.”

Luke forced his eyes open, failed as only one obeyed; the other remained shut tight. He blinked grit and dust, and through blurry tears he saw the dark grey of durasteel centimetres from his face, it’s surface dented and scratched and blackened with carbon.

“Dammit, Luke,” another breathless whisper, “stay still.”

Had he moved? He wanted to move, wanted to get out of this uncomfortable position that he found himself in. He felt pressure, felt compressed, felt his breaths enter and leave a chest that had been crushed.

_What had happened?_

_Where was he?_

With full consciousness slowly bleeding back Luke struggled to make sense of what was going on.

_“I am your father!”_

No. He suppressed his sudden memory, the image of Darth Vader extending an inviting hand as the winds of Bespin tugged at him, threatening to blow him off the thin ridge upon which he stood.

_“Join me!”_

No, that had been weeks ago. That wasn’t now.

He licked, his lips; they felt rough, sore, as though burned by a hot cup of caff and tried to remember.

His head pounded as he looked down and saw the orange of his flight-suit.

_Had he crashed?_

_Wouldn’t be the first time._

No, he was on his knees on a floor.

He blinked, trying to clear the stinging grit from his open eye. His body shuddered; an involuntary response.

 _Shock_ , he thought, hazily. _Stress._

“Keep still!” The voice urged; a voice he knew.

He tried to speak, “Wedge…” but he had little breath, no voice and it came out as a croak of sound.

“Shhhhh.”

A curl smoke brushed across his face and, closing his eye, Luke, fumbled for the Force, tried to catch the strands to pull it to him. He missed.

Opening his eye, his right eye still staying stubbornly shut, Luke concentrated on his knees. The fabric of his flightsuit was torn, filthy, and chunk of it was burned away, the skin behind looking red, raw and painful.

_‘supposed to be burn retardant…_

He reached for Force again, it danced elusively beyond his reach. He tried to move his hand, his right hand. It stuck. He tugged and a new agony murmured down his arm, he bit back a cry.

“Luke, please…” The voice pleaded. No, Wedge pleaded, sounding desperate.

Drawing in a pain filled breath, Luke smelled smoke and dirt and ozone and he choked on it. Was that blood he could taste? He glanced up, saw his arm was raised about his head, his wrist seemed to disappear between two sheets of metal…

_The blast doors._

The blast doors. His right arm was pinned, trapped over his head, by the blast doors.

The mission. The ammo dump. The run through the Imperial outpost and the explosion.

He remembered now.

He was kneeling on the floor by the doors, trapped against metal that still radiated heat and… there was someone draped over him, someone whose weight added to the drag on his trapped arm, on his compressed chest.

“Shhh….” Wedge again in his ear, “stay still. They’re coming this way.”

_They?_

“Not a sound, Luke.”

Wedge. It was Wedge lying on him, over his back. His friend sounded rough, sounded pained. His voice torn.

There were other sounds. Bootsteps, the clatter of armour and the tinny sound of stormtroopers speaking.

“This one’s dead, move on.”

“Over here, this one’s alive!”

“Nah, she won’t last, finish her.”

A sudden report of blaster fire.

Luke closed his eyes, tried to swallow in a swollen throat, tasted blood, tasted ash as full consciousness truly wakened him. He wanted to cough, needed to cough and fought to suppress it. He understood what had just happened; one of his squad had been executed by Imperials who had come to investigate the explosion. He knew their situation was dire and he knew that he was severely injured and helpless. Pain racked his body; a hot burning agony down and along the side of his head, his body.

_Flash burn?_

…he was sure his right arm was broken, possibly dislocated at the elbow, he knew his prosthetic hand was caught by the blast doors, and seared by heat. His throat burned, swallowing was painful, taking a breath hurt…

_You breathed hot air; smoke._

…and his whole body felt battered and bruised.

He briefly closed his eye, stretching for the Force. Awake now, he caught a wisp of power and drew the Force to him for strength, leaned into it much like one would a crutch. Luke’s head cleared some more, his pain became tolerable, but he didn’t know how long he could last.

The footsteps were closer.

There was a cry, a squawk of pain, a sound of dragging.

“On your knees, Rebel.”

A thump, a thud.

“I said on your knees, Scum. Hands on your head.”

Someone was alive, had been taken.

Then: “At the doors, two of them.”

“Shit,” Wedge murmured in his ear.

The rattle of armour and bootsteps came closer. There was a sound of scraping and shifting and Luke imagined them moving the debris from the fallen ceiling and ruined walls to get to Wedge and himself. His heart hammered in his chest; there was no way out of this; not for him and not for Wedge.

Wedge’s weight suddenly disappeared as his friend was dragged off him and despite the Corellian pilot’s previous entreaties to Luke to keep quiet there was a grunt of pain when Antillies hit the floor. How badly was Wedge hurt?

“This one’s alive,” a voice observed about Wedge with some satisfaction in his voice.

“Put him with the others, check that other one,” this voice did not belong to a stormtrooper.

An armoured hand grabbed Luke’s collar, jerked him back and a blast of intense agony purled along the shattered bones in his trapped arm. He couldn’t help it; he lost his grasp on the Force and he cried out, called out. He remained locked in place between the blast doors.

Wedge must have grabbed him just as the doors shut, must have pulled him behind the door, snapping his arm just as the fire hit, before the wave of sonic hit.

There was laughter from the troopers. “He’s stuck!”

Luke could feel blood beginning to run down his arm, into his armpit. He grasped and grappled for the Force once more, like a drowning man in water desperate for something to hold onto.

A hand grabbed his hair, dragged up his head and he found himself looking up into the face of trooper’s helmet. It was dusted with ash, spattered with blood.

“He’s conscious, fully aware,” he called back to his superior. “We could cut him loose?” It was more of question than a statement.

“Leave him, it’s not worth the effort,” the voice said, and Luke expected a quick shot and a quick death. “We can question them here.”

Luke’s head was released, and he turned as best he could to see what was happening, feeling no relief at not being immediately executed.

The scene was as dismal as he had expected; the wall opposite the doors had been blown out, and through the hole, through the smoke, he could see six of his companions, including Wedge, had survived the explosions and were now lined up, stripped of weapons, with hands on heads. Each of the six had varying degrees of injury, and each of the six had a trooper behind them with a blaster pointing at their heads.

Another tendril of smoke rose around Luke, blown by the light wind that came from the holes in the ceiling, it caught in his throat and he coughed; lungs burning at the movement, ribs protesting and throat spasming. He had no idea how they were going to get out of this.

A figure stepped forward in front of the rebel line. An officer, Luke squinted through smoke irritated eyes; a Captain if he was reading the rank bars correctly.

“Do you have any idea who you just pissed off?” he was laughing, enjoying himself. “Do you have any idea who is on his way here now? Do any of you, have any idea, what is in store for you all?”

The questions were rhetorical, but they twisted Luke’s belly with an abruptly keen understanding.

Vader. The man was talking about Vader.

 _My father_.

And yet the Force was quiet. There was no warning. No sense of danger.

_Not to me anyway._

_Not yet._

Luke resisted the impulse to reach out into the Force and search for the man who claimed to be his father; instead he gathered it in, held it tight and used it to dampen his pain. He needed his wits about him.

“So,” the Imperial Captain elongated the word, ‘sooooo,” using it to draw out their physical agony and tease their emotional and mental capacities; playing with their fears, “which one of you is the ranking officer?”

No-one spoke; the quiet broken only by a piece of ceiling tumbling to the floor from further down the corridor, by the pop and crackle of fires still burning and by the grunts and breaths of pain from the assembled rebels.

“No?” The Captain nodded at one of the troopers.

Another sharp shot. Another dead Rebel.

Luke saw the rest tense up; Wedges eyes flared in fright and then settled on Luke’s with firm determination, his head moved minutely to the side and back. It looked like a tremor of pain, but Luke knew what Wedge was telling him; _“don’t you dare own up, Skywalker.”_ But, how could he say silent when all their lives were at stake? When one word from him could possibly save them.

_Or condemn them._

The Imps could easily just execute them all once they had their prize.

“I shall ask again, shall I?” The Imperial continued, voice polite and cordial, as though asking someone to pass the Deveronian pepper at a meal. “Which. One. Of. You. Is. The. Ranking. Officer?” He pivoted on his heel, looking toward Luke, including the trapped man in his question.

 _He has blue-eyes_ , Luke thought absently, _like mine_.

Still silence, the rebels’ head were down, each one waiting for the shot.

The officer turned from Luke, nodded at another trooper.

“Wait!” Luke called, but his voice stuck in his throat, got trapped behind his vocal cords. He coughed, a hacking spasm that rocked his body with pain. He spat out ash and blood and his vision spun, a slow sickening loop.

_Was it smoke damage, heat damage?_

He didn’t know. All he knew was that there was another shot and another dead friend. The dizziness eased and he lifted his head to find Wedge glaring at him and Luke glared back – knowing each were silently arguing with the other.

 _Don’t do it, Luke._ Wedge was saying.

_I may need to, Wedge, for all our sakes._

The officer looked around. “Did I hear something? Was someone trying to say something?”

The Captain looked at Wedge, crouched down beside the kneeling man. “You, pilot? Do you have something to say?”

Wedge stayed silent. Refusing to give the man the satisfaction of looking him in the eyes.

A crack of knee joints and the Imperial stood and nodded to the soldier at Wedge’s back.

“No!”

The shout was cracked, sounded painful, but it was heard. The captain whirled around, while gesturing for the trooper to belay the shot.

“Ah, our stuck friend has something to say!” He seemed delighted as though dessert had just been served. He picked around the debris, stepped through the hall into the collapsed corridor and hunkered down next Luke and whispered softly, coldly. “Who is the ranking officer?”

Luke tried to lick his lips, but he had no saliva, his lips felt rough, peeling, but he managed to say. “I... am.”

The captain smiled, “Really? You’re not in the best physical condition, my friend. You’re probably dying by the looks of you,” he observed, pleasantly, “are you sure you are not just telling me this so that your compatriots can have a few more seconds of life,” he looked thoughtful, “or perhaps you are wishing a quicker death for yourself to be free of the pain?”

“It’s… me…” Luke assured him, not looking at Wedge. He stared the man in the eyes. “I’m Com… Commander… Luke… Sky…walker…”

The Captain shot to his feet, as though stung. “Skywalker! He hissed, a flash, a gleam of ambition in his eyes as he stared down at Luke. He whirled to look at Wedge who lowered his head and whispered, “shit.”

“Cuff them, bring them all,” he commanded, with a laugh. “Lord Vader can deal with them all,” he crouched back down at Luke, “I know of your reputation all too well, Skywalker,” he paused, anger now filling his eyes, it twisted his lips and he whispered again, the hate in the words sinking Luke’s heart. “My husband was on the Death Star.”

ooOOoo

He couldn’t wake up. He knew on one level that he had been drugged, knew that he was in trouble, knew that he had to get up, had to move, but he simply couldn’t. He slept.

Later, Luke forced open his eyes, saw a dull orange light, and closed them again.

It was cold, he observed a while after. At least, he thought it was after. It may only have been a few minutes. He opened his eyes to the same orange light and again his eyelids slid shut.

 _Imperial cell,_ he thought and knew he should be more worried about that than he was.

He clumsily fumbled for the Force, tried to reach out and fell asleep.

His body felt heavy, limbs like beskar, head pounding like a metal smith’s hammer. He smiled blearily at that…

_Beskar… metal smith… get it?_

He got it.

He slept.

His arm hurt. A dull, heavy, bone deep ache. He groaned, tried to lift his left hand to hold it against his right, but it caught with a rattle. Bewildered, Luke strained to open his eyes, the right eye still tight, slow, but he compelled both to open and in that same dim orange glow he slowly focused on his surrounds.

He was lying on the floor, on his side, his face against the same type of floor grating that had been in Leia’s cell on the Death Star. From the ceiling fell the same poor light and, just about a foot away, was the straight lines of a sleeping platform.

They hadn’t even had the decency to lay him on the bunk.

Willing himself to stay awake this time, and not allow the drug induced tiredness to claim him again, Luke lay for moment staring ahead that the roughened durasteel and took stock of his situation, of his physical condition. The side of his face still smarted, but it wasn’t the screaming agony of a fresh burn. His arm was dressed and set in a bacta cast. His lungs dragged, his throat felt swollen, but his breathing was definitely improved and Luke had to concede that the Imperials had, at least, given him enough medical treatment to save his life. Still, he had to wonder the reasoning behind it; because his father was coming and Vader had ordered it, or to bolster him, to strengthen him so that he would not die at the first touch of torture droid.

Now, there was a cheery thought.

He coughed, tried to move, wanting to roll over from his side onto his back, but again his left wrist caught, his ankles, too. Again, that rattle when he moved and, with dawning horror, Luke realised that he was short chained to the floor and only his broken right arm, with mangled prosthetic hand still attached to his wrist, was free.

He squinted at the hand, the burst and seared, synth-flesh, the twisted and disjointed fingers, the loose wires.

“Shit,” he slurred, blinking in horror at the sight. “Shit.”

They hadn’t removed it, hadn’t replaced it.

What did that mean for him?

He was stripped of his flight suit, clad only in grey pants, tied down like an animal for slaughter, or for branding. Tied down so he could not fight back.

Luke swallowed his rising panic, tried to reach passed the effects of the drugs and into the Force, tried to feel for Wedge and the others; fearful that this was happening to them too, that giving up his identity had done nothing but pain them all, but he couldn’t concentrate couldn’t find the peace or passivity that Yoda had taught. Instead he gasped in frustration and pain, wishing the metal smith in his head would put down his karking hammer.

The cell door abruptly slashed open, and Luke was immediately chilled, not just by the cooler air that rushed in, but by the darkness that seeped down the steps and by the sound of Darth Vader’s regulated breathing.

Luke panted shallow breaths, fighting his sudden terror, trying to keep…

_His thrill, his relief._

…his turmoil from bubbling to the surface as his father stepped down into the cell.

Vader took a slow walk around the short-chained prisoner, his cape brushing against Luke’s skin. He stopped before his prone son and tucked his thumbs into his belt and stared down as Luke looked away; given his position and his lack of physical strength, he could do little else.

Vader noted the injured arm, the cast and the damaged prosthesis, the burns that blemished his son’s skin. The right side of Luke’s face was scarlet, no longer raw and seeping, but scarred enough that the healing skin had a sheen. One eyelid drooped, his ear was crinkled, and his hair had been singed away. His body was mottled with old and new bruises.

Vader had to dampen his rising ire and remind himself that Luke may be his son, but he was also a Rebel and Rebels deserved no mercy.

After the few seconds of silent scrutiny, Vader stated. “His injuries were treated?”

“Minimally, my Lord,” Luke recognised the voice of the Captain who had captured them, “we did not want him dying before you arrived.”

“A wise decision,” Vader rumbled, “I would have been most displeased.”

Vader moved again, another circuit. Luke swallowed dryly, gagged. “His companions?”

“Are in separate containment cells.”

“Their status?”

“One has potentially life-threatening injuries he sustained during the explosion, the others are in,” Luke sensed a shrug. “various states of health. However, all can be questioned should you so wish it, my Lord.”

Again, Vader stopped before Luke. “You have identified them?” he spoke to his officer, but kept his attention on Luke.

“Just one, my Lord. Wedge Antilles, a deserter from the Skystrike Academy on…”

“I know where Skystrike is, I know of Antilles, and of his affiliation with Skywalker.” He looked down at Luke, ignoring the pain radiating from the boy, ignoring the shallow pants of breath. “I shall enjoy discussing his defection with him.”

_Wedge!_

There was a mixture of relief and horror; Wedge had not yet been questioned, but he was facing it.

“Ple..please,” Luke forced out, voice hoarse, scraping through his swollen throat. “Father…”

Vader’s eyes went straight to the Captain at Luke’s entreaty. The man was looking down at Luke, but then his blue irises rose to Vader’s mask’s and his pupils widened in shock, in understanding.

Vader merely bowed his head in acknowledgement but gave no other explanation. It was not needed, this man was beneath him. “Release Skywalker, then leave. I shall question him myself.”

The man stood for a moment, momentarily stunned, then he visibly gave himself a shake and, with trembling hands, he undid the chains that were keeping Luke pinned to the floor.

“Ahh…” With a groan Luke stretched out his legs, muscles cramping with the sudden movement. He lay, gasping, as the Captain bowed his head and hurried from the room.

There was silence for a few minutes after the door slammed shut. Luke’s laboured breathing syncing with Vader’s own regulated breaths.

“Get up,” Vader finally told him, “so that we may speak.”

“I… I don’t… think I can.” Luke told him, truthfully. He coughed, held his hand against his ribs, wincing.

“I will not repeat myself,” Vader warned him.

With another groan Luke rolled onto his back and paused, gathering his strength, before pushing himself up on his good arm. Another pause…

“Ack!”

Losing patience Vader leaned down and gripped Luke by the upper arm and pulled him up, Ignoring Luke’s protests he dragged his son across the floor and deposited him on the stark platform.

He stood back, allowing Luke to rally, to catch his breath. Luke’s eyes watched his father warily; his apprehension growing, a little anger firing. This was his father…

_his father!_

…doing this to him, putting him through this.

A father he didn’t know, who didn’t know him. A father who was his enemy.

The quiet dragged until Luke could stand it no longer, licking his lips, he swallowed and stated, “I still won’t join you.”

“I have not asked you,” he was told darkly. “You rejected my offer, why should I give it again.”

_Because I hoped you would._

Luke stamped on this thought, quashed it, lest it seep into his emotions and allow Vader to…

The Dark Lord wheeled around, stepped forward and Luke recoiled from the thought, from his father, cursing himself. This was not what he wanted, he was not going to join Vader and betray everything he had fought for since Tatooine, since the brutal murders of his guardians. He would never betray Leia, the Rebellion, the Jedi, the men lying in the cells around him.

“Aren’t you going to question me?” he changed the subject and gestured around the cell, his tone harsh, cold eyes fixed on his father’s bulk. “I don’t see a droid.”

“I need no machine to question rebels,” Vader thundered, the timbre of his voice rattling Luke’s head further; he winced.

“You did for Leia,” he shot back, regardless of his pain. He pushed up, his anger strengthening him.

Vader smiled behind his mask; feeling Luke’s ire, feeling the dark side coil in anticipation. He wanted to fuel it, to see it burn. “I see that you are indeed on first name terms with the Alderaanian Princess.”

Luke clamped his jaw shut, eyes flashing in annoyance.

“What are you doing here, Luke?”

“Blowing stuff up, Darth.” Luke retorted before he could stop himself, then he flinched back, recoiled as Vader took an angry step forward, fists closing with a leathery creak.

“Do not presume to test my patience, boy,” he threatened, “you may be my son, but I will not hold back.”

Luke glared at the figure looming above him, another retort on the tip of his tongue, his anger growing hot and strong.

_Anger, fear, aggression the dark side are they. Easily they flow…_

Luke glanced away, remembering the last time he had faced his father, how his anger had got the better of him and what the outcome of their duel had been. He had been beaten, soundly beaten, and had lost his hand to a vicious stroke of Vader’s blade. On Bespin he had been armed and sure of himself, now he had no weapon, was injured and shut in a tiny holding cell with the man who had bested him.

 _My father_.

He relaxed on the sleeping platform, lay down, allowing the anger to rise and dissipate, allowing the Force to calm him.

Vader was impressed by his son’s control, but he knew anger still simmered below the surface and would rise again when goaded with the right words, the right actions. Luke had to know that it was useless to resist, that he was trapped and had nowhere to go, no escape. Luke just needed a push in the right direction, a deviation from the path that his son believed he had chosen.

Vader just had to find the right catalyst; just as Palpatine had found Anakin Skywalker’s.

_Padme._

That one thing that held Luke to the light, that one transient thread that could be snipped and removed allowing Luke to drift into his father’s path; allowing Vader to draw his son to him and away from others who wished to corrupt the gifts that Luke possessed.

_The rebellion._

_Palpatine_

“Ask your questions,” Luke told him, tiredly, staring at the ceiling in resignation. If his fate was to be tortured for answers by his own father, then so be it. If Vader was with him, if he could keep the Dark Lord occupied, then he wasn’t with Wedge or any of the others.

Vader cocked his head, picking up on his son’s acceptance, of his son’s feelings of…

_Protection._

…no, that wasn’t quite right. Vader reach out, careful not to alert his son while doing so. It was…

_Others. Protection of others._

Of course. It was not just the Alderaanian Princess and the smuggler who Luke was close, too. Father and son carried the same flaw, the same weakness, when it came to the Jedi dogma. Luke had not learned his lesson from Bespin, when he had come running recklessly to the Cloud City to save his friends only to fail.

Luke would still prefer to take the pain rather than endanger someone else.

_Attachments._

_Friends._

_Loved ones._

Ties.

And Vader knew where the cuts had to be made and, this time, there would be no going back for Luke, no return to the Rebel Alliance, no choice and only one pathway.

Straight to his father.

“Very well,” Vader finally responded, drawing himself up and steeling his resolve. Let Luke feel the pain, let him feel what could be done to the others; to the traitor Antilles. Let the fear for others influence his son’s actions. “Commander Skywalker, what was your mission to Abarim?”

Luke stared up, eyes flaring in disbelief, in horror and fear. Then his jaw firmly set, his eyes dulled in resignation as the cell door slashed open to admit two detention guards and, floating in behind on whining repulsors, an IT-O interrogation droid. He swallowed, cleared his throat, gathered the Force to him, ready for the fight, and answered.

“I told you…,” his throat was still rough, sore from inhaling hot air, “We were… blowing stuff up.”

ooOOoo

Luke was kneeling on the floor grating vomiting. He had nothing to come up; just saliva and bile, but he was glad the Imperials had designed the cells this way, at least he didn’t run the risk of standing in a puddling of his own body fluids.

When he had the strength to stand, that was.

He gagged again, sweat beading his face as his body lurched. It was true what they said about Thiohexium; it made you nauseous. It also made you talk, but Luke was pretty sure he hadn’t said too much, and he was also pretty sure that, despite his words, Vader _had_ held back.

If you could call what had happened holding back.

He’d tried to fight, had used the force to drive the droid against the cell wall, had hurled the guards after it, before a powerful back hand from Vader had sent him reeling. He had been beaten by the guards, injected in the neck by a replacement droid, questioned by Vader and beaten again when he had tried to resist the drug. His fractured and seared arm had been twisted, the crushed prosthetic breaking off and falling away.

That was the first time he thrown up.

“Why were you on Abarim?” Vader had asked.

“Vacation,” he’d answered, resisting against the pull of the drug that bid him answer truthfully. The drug reacted with epinephrine he remembered from his briefing on Imperial interrogation techniques soon after he had joined the Alliance. They injected you, deliberately hurt you to release the hormone and then asked their questions. Thiohex was effective in wringing the truth from prisoners. It also affected Force sensitivity, robbed you of your senses.

“What was your mission?”

“Tol… told you, blowing…”

That earned him another thrashing, an additional dose of Thiohex. More questions. It was difficult to remember them all, so many.

“Where is the Alliance base?”

“Nuh… nuh… not… here.”

Blood had been dripping from his nose, but he had been truthful.

“Your mission on Abarim?”

He vomited again. “C…odes, spatial co-ordinates.”

“For what?” Vader demanded.

A hand on his broken arm, a squeeze to release more hormone. He had screamed then. He was sure he had screamed a lot, but that was the one he remembered.

“Mi…mi…mission.”

“What mission?” Vader was ruthless.

 _Tell the truth,_ he had been taught by the instructors, _hide the truth in the truth for as long as you can._

“M…my… mi…mi…mission.”

A change of tactic, of questioning. “Where is the Alliance Fleet.”

Luke had laughed. “Nu…nu… not here.”

Another beating.

It had been getting difficult to think, to keep up.

“Who has been training you in the Force?”

“Yeh… yeh… “ he’d fought harder against that, straining against the effects of the drug that wanted to loosen his tongue and finally he gasped out, “Obi-Wan!”

Which again wasn’t entirely untrue. Obi-Wan had indeed taught him a lesson.

_If you choose to face Vader, you will do it alone._

Yep, not going to do that again, he’d thought staring up the Dark Lord from the floor and that’s when the giggles had struck him. The guards had stepped forward towards him again, only to be motioned back by his father.

“No,” he’d said in warning, “Leave him. There are others to question. Antilles may be more forthcoming with answers.

They had left him on his knees, and he’d been unable to move since; racked as he was by retching and that damned metal smith still pounding away in his brain.

_Antilles._

_Wedge._

He groaned, he couldn’t allow this, couldn’t let Wedge be forced to endure Vader’s questioning, and the horrors of thiohex. He had to get them out of here, had to find a way; a way to fight, a way to get off Abarim before Vader put them all to the rack.

He collapsed onto his side, exhausted, and passed out.

ooOOoo

Luke opened his eyes and found himself still lying on the floor of the cell with pain undulating through the shattered remains of his right arm. It wasn’t his only pain, but it was the worst. It had wakened him, dragging him from a slumber that had been surprisingly peaceful and refreshing, although perhaps he just felt that way because he could no longer feel any aftereffects of the drugs in his system.

He could feel again, he could connect with the living Force, which meant the thiohex had left his system, he must have been out for some hours.

With effort, he turned onto his back, biting off a cry of agony as muscles, bone and skin protested any movement. They had really given him a once-over, no make that four or five-overs. He rested for moment gathering his breath and coughed into the air; it still hurt to breathe. He’d have to get himself checked out when they got back to the Alliance base; he had a bad feeling that he needed another soak in a bacta tank, maybe even a flush through his lungs. That would be uncomfortable.

_Smoke inhalation. You breathed in heat._

If… If they got back to the Alliance base.

He wasn’t going to think about that. He wasn’t going to let himself sink into despair; that’s what Vader wanted. He wanted Luke to give up, to give in, and capitulate.

_Not gonna happen._

Tentatively, Luke reached into the Force, grinning when it easily answered his call. He wiped fresh blood from his mouth with the back of hand and pulled the Force to him, feeling it moving through him, easing some of the pain, lessening the hammering in his head. He grunted, pushed himself up into a sitting position, manoeuvred his body around and rested against the side of the sleeping platform.

He rubbed at his face with his remaining hand, hissing when his rough hand raised scraped the stinging burn on the side of his face and he tentatively touched, searched, his skin with his fingertips. His right cheek was sensitive, swollen, rough and painful, his ear didn’t feel right, and his hair on that side was simply gone; burned off, or shaved by the Imperials, he wasn’t sure.

Well, hadn’t Han once told him that girls dig scars?

He sighed at that. Girls were the least of his worries; hadn’t he dedicated himself to the Jedi? Hadn’t Yoda cautioned him on attachments, explained how they could make him weak to the manipulations of the Dark Side?

Luke shook his head; he had always found strength in friendships.

And yet, he had failed miserably when he had run from Dagobah to save Han and Leia.

Remembering that turned his thoughts to the friends he had here, friends needing his help right now. He had to get out of this cell, find the others, and get the hell off this planet. He couldn’t fail this time; Wedge needed him, the other survivors needed him before Vader got to them, too.

_He may already have._

The door opened, and Luke jerked in shock, in horror, expecting Vader to step back down into the cell with him. Yet again, he hadn’t sensed his father. He wasn’t ready. Not yet… Not yet…

His heart hammered and he gathered his legs in, coiled the Force around his body, braced to move, to fight back again, and was relieved and mildly humoured to watch a small, balding, man in the uniform of an Imperial medic step down into the cell carrying a small case marked as medical supplies.

“Ah,” the man said, glancing around the small oppressive room with a wrinkle of his nose and Luke realised that he must not smell too fresh. “I, uh, the Lord Vader has ordered that your health be assessed for uh, for….”

“…another round of interrogation?” Luke stated for him, his voice rough and hoarse; from the smoke, from the screams wrung from him.

The medic drew up at this, he looked uncomfortable and Luke realised in that moment that the cell door had not yet shut behind him. It lay open, inviting, tempting.

“Uh, no, no,” the man answered quickly. “For transportation. You are being relocated to his Lordship’s ship.”

_Located to his Lordship’s ship!_

_Say that ten times in row after some Corellian ale._

Suppressing his humour, and the threatening smile, Luke took his eyes away from the open door, lest the man see the direction of his eyes and have it closed. “The others,” Luke said, rasping, “they are being moved, too?”

The medic kneeled beside him, giving Luke a clear floor between him and the door. He swallowed, seeing a cell door opposite his own, seeing the corridor between. He could see no movement, and he gently probed in the Force and could sense no guards outside his cell. It seemed too easy, it seemed suspicious.

What was Vader up to?

Would he be a fool to try it? Would he be caught and slapped back down; have his hope snatched away only to be thrown back into this dingy dungeon?

“No,” he was told in response to his question. “Just you,” the medic smiled as he opened his case and began checking through the contents. “I’m afraid that your friends are to be executed.” He didn’t sound afraid at all.

Anger curled in the pit of Luke’s belly, grief and fear for his friends and, despite his concerns, his decision was made; even if this was some sort of set up, he had to take the opportunity to free himself and the others in the squad. He only hoped they had all survived this long; however long “this” was. A day, two? More? He just didn’t know.

Closing his eyes, Luke fell into the force, calling on it for strength, for the power to help him move his tortured body.

And move he did, slamming his left fist into the side of the medic’s head, driving it against the corner of the sleeping platform. There was a smack, a crack, and the man flopped to the floor. Hurriedly, Luke rummaged in the medical pack, drawing out ampules of medication and painkillers before realising he didn’t have pockets in his pants.

_Dammit._

With a grimace he crouched by the unconscious man and removed the medic’s jacket. Hissing in pain, Luke shrugged it on and, leaving it unfastened, he filled its pockets with his spoils after quickly injecting himself with an ampule of analgesic and a stim shot.

He stood, wobbled on unsteady legs, glancing at the unconscious Imperial, already feeling regret at harming a man who was just doing his job…

 _And you’re just doing yours_.

…and limped cautiously to the doorway. He peered out, looked up one way of the corridor and down the other before gripping the side of the opening to steady himself and stepping out of the cell.

He paused, listening to the Force, looking for direction, and hobbled across the hall, feeling his strength, his hope, grow with each step.

ooOOoo

The bead of sweat dripped from the end of his nose, falling to land on the floor grating. The droplet slid down between the criss-cross of metal and disappeared into the glow of orange light that dimly illuminated the bleakness of his surroundings.

Wedge had lost all sense of time. He had no idea how long he had been in this suffocating heat, no idea how long it had been since he had been dragged down the steps, horror rattling through him at sight of the tall, bulk of Darth Vader standing silent and still waiting for him in the cell, and short-chained to a bolt in the floor at Vader’s feet. Wrists and ankles shackled, left in a painful crouch; unable to sit, unable to stand.

Vader had simply turned and left the room, the door sliding shut, leaving Wedge confused and alone and utterly terrified.

He grimaced, face contorting with the agony of his cramping thigh muscles. Biting back a cry he tried to shuffle, tried to change position, but he knew it was useless, he knew the only way out of this would come when his captors returned and he knew that would be when his situation would become so much worse.

He coughed, dragged in breath. It burned. It was becoming harder and harder to breathe, the linger effects of the smoke on his lungs he had inhaled while draped over Luke, his folded position and the unbearable humidity of the room was making even the simplest of body functions excruciating and difficult.

Time ticked sluggishly, slow hours broken only by dripping sweat, agonizing muscle spasms and hacking coughs that wracked his body.

Wedge closed his eyes, ran his tongue over parched lips, wondering if he would ever again see beyond the walls of this cell or if this was it, if this was all he had left. This room, this agony, this unbearable heat and thirst.

He jerked on the chain that kept him in the forced crouch, grunted as he tried to shift his bare feet on the grating, the sharp edges of the lattice cutting into the skin of his soles.

He was worried about Luke, worried about the rest of the squad. He was worried about himself; anxious about his ability to withstand the interrogation when it came time.

_You can do this. You can do this._

But could he really? He’d been here before. Had been locked up with Hobbie…

_Thank the Force he isn’t here._

…and had been facing Imperial interrogation when they were rescued by Sabine Wren.

Now it looked like he was on his own; they were all on their own. All separated and dumped into neighbouring cells.

And Luke… where was Luke? What had they done to him? Skywalker been badly injured pulling that stunt after the explosions, and that was on top of his recent recovery from whatever had happened on Bespin where he had faced Darth Vader alone.

_Crazy son of a canoid, going up against Vader like that. What the kark, had he been thinking?_

But Wedge knew. Knew all too well what Luke thought of Vader, or at least, he once did. Lately Luke had been quiet on the subject of the Emperor’s second in command, had avoid any mention of the Dark Lord, had risen and left the squad room when Jason did his famous, and admittedly hilarious, imitation of Vader’s breathing.

_“Sheesh-coo, sheesh-coo. I am Darth Vader! Fear Me! Sheesh-coo….”_

Luke had become serious, withdrawn, and it gnawed at Wedge, worried him. They knew Luke had fought Vader, they knew he had been injured and that, somehow, he had escaped with his life. They knew that Vader had renewed his efforts to find and capture Skywalker; the bounty on Luke’s head had tripled with the caveat that he be taken alive. Luke had merely shrugged at that news and changed the subject.

Wedge tried to shuffle again, tried to find a position to relieve his endless suffering. It was no good, his position was fixed.

He groaned, head drooping, wishing he could pass out…

_Even dying would be better than this!_

…just to get relief from this never-ending hell.

Wishing Vader would hurry up and get to him and just get this whole thing over with.

Despite his thoughts he still squawked in dismay when his cell door sliced open and tried to pull away from the shadow that descended, followed by…

“Luke?” his voice, was a dry whisper. He squinted at the slim, figure that limped down into the cell.

The shadow and Luke became one.

“Luke?” he said again watching in astonishment as Luke cautiously and carefully crouched before him. Skywalker looked worse than he felt; and he felt pretty bad.

“Yeah, Wedge, s’me,” Luke’s rough tones assured him, checking him over. Antilles didn’t look too bad, which was a relief, maybe Vader hadn’t gotten to him yet. “Think you can stand? Walk?”

Wedge loosely nodded, “Yeah, but I’ll do better with a blaster in my hand.”

“Still working on that,” Luke murmured as he checked Wedge’s chains. They were similar to the ones that had held him. He closed his eyes, laid his hand on the locks, and pressed against them.

Wedge felt a jolt, heard a rattle, and watched dumbfounded as the chains dropped away.

_What the Kark?_

Then he fell over.

It was agony! Blood flowed into his limbs, into his muscles, and he bit deep into his cheek to keep his cries at bay.

“Wedge! Wedge,” Luke was whispering desperately. He sounded worried, terribly agitated and anxious.

“Gimme a sec,” he requested, tasting blood as he spoke. Then, “Ow!” he exclaimed at a sharp sting on his leg.

“Painkiller,” Luke hissed

Another sharp sting. “Ah!”

“A stim, come on.”

It hurt, it hurt a lot. His legs burned with the effort to stand. His back sent waves of agony into his limbs and he dropped hard at the first step. Then there were other hands helping, not just Luke’s and he looked around, blearily seeing the faces of two of his surviving squad mates.

“Others?” he asked, roughly, already knowing the answer.

“We’re all that’s left. Private Berns was dead in his cell,” Luke told him with regret, then he glanced around at the corridor and back at Wedge. “We’re taking a chance,” Luke warned him, explaining, “We got out too easy. I think it’s a trick of Vader’s, but it’s the only…”

“…chance we’re gonna get,” Wedge finished, looking at Luke’s earnest eyes, the blend of healing burn tissue scaring his friend’s face and head, the bruises and the blood. Luke’s prosthetic was gone, and he cradled his right arm close against his body. He could see the pain etched on Skywalker’s face.

Luke smiled, the movement tugging at his scars, he nodded, and they moved.

ooOOoo

They had met little resistance as they slowly made their way through the Imperial Garrison. Wedge had guessed that most of the personnel were still on clean up duty at the site of the disintegrated armament warehouse. Luke had agreed, wanting to believe his friend, but he knew something wasn’t right here; this had been too easy.

There had only been two guards in the cell block, and they were quickly subdued by Luke who, with a brief second of concentration and a flick of his wrist had sent them careening into the farthest wall. They had dropped, out cold, to the floor.

Wedge was glad that he had seen Kanan Jarrus and Era Bridger in action before Luke Skywalker had dropped into his life or he may have cussed like the big soldier,…

_Dricken? Stricken? Chicken?_

_Meh, does his name matter just now?_

…had.

“Karking wizards.”

If Luke had heard he hadn’t reacted. Skywalker had simply hobbled to the fallen men and lifted their blasters. He handed one to Wedge, the other to Dricken…

_..Drippen?_

No alarm had been raised.

They had reluctantly entered the turbolift, no-one liking the confined space, all worried about what they may face when the elevator doors opened on the upper levels. No-one spoke on the ride up, all conserving what energy they had left for the possible fight ahead.

Wedge wiped his palm on his flightsuit, gripped his blaster as the lift slowed. He glanced at Luke. Skywalker’s eyes were closed, and he seemed to mouthing something slowly to himself, the same movements over and over and then Luke visibly relaxed his shoulders and opened his eyes, meeting Wedge’s with a grim determination.

The doors parted to an empty corridor.

Lue could feel the relief from the other’s, he could feel their undercurrent senses that screamed just as loud as his own feelings.

This didn’t feel right. Each step they took screamed at Luke to turn around and run in the opposite direction. Except, in this base, there was no opposite direction. This was the only way in, or out.

They had no choice but to walk on, hugging the walls, sometimes holding onto the walls for support. They were all hurt, all injured from the explosions.

“Wait here, rest a moment,” Luke told them, gesturing to the junction they were approaching, “I’ll scout ahead.”

Wedge nodded in relief and slid down the wall to sit on the floor. He was exhausted and wanted to make the most of this pause.

The other three watched Luke limp away, at times reaching out with his left hand to steady himself.

“What do think, Antilles,” Dricken…

_Ficken? No, definitely a ‘D.’_

…crouched by him. “Ya think Skywalker’s leading us into a trap, Captain?”

Wedge frowned at the accusatory tone of the soldier’s voice. “Luke got us out of a trap, remember?” he reminded the man, sharply.

“Yeah, but, looked at him,” the man, persisted, gesturing a hand in Luke’s direction.

Wedge glanced up; Luke was standing still, holding onto the wall, left hand around his ribs, head cocked as though listening to something only he could hear.

“Ya, gotta admit, he’s a little creepy at times.”

“The Force,” Wedge said absently, still watching Luke. “I’ve seen Jedi before.”

“A damned wizard, like Vader,” the man growled in dismissal.

A spike of anger tore through Wedge and he struggled to his feet, he couldn’t shout for fear of being heard, didn’t have the strength or breath anyway, so he hissed at the soldier. “He is nothing like Vader! Nothing. If is wasn’t for Luke there would be no rebellion. If it wasn’t for Luke, we’d still be sitting in our cells waiting for Vader to take us apart and…”

“You know he’s been questioned, don’t you?” the man said.

“What?” Wedge turned back to Luke, watching as his friend cautiously peeked around a corner.

“You didn’t notice?”

“Notice what?”

“The injection site on his neck.”

Wedge’s stomach dropped, he felt ill. Of all of them, it had been Luke, Vader had gone too. “And you still doubt him?” Wedge was disgusted. “He’s been through hell, and you compare him to Vader.”

The man shrugged, “Maybe Vader’s turned him? He won’t be the first rebel to come back converted and working for the other side. Think about, Captain. The word is he was caught on Bespin. He came back. You think it’s just a coincidence that Vader’s here the same time as Skywalker?”

“He came back minus a hand,” Wedge said, but not as emphatically. The soldier’s words had caused him to pause, just for a minute.

It was true of course, there had been soldiers, hell even a couple of pilots, who had been believed captured only to return unexpectedly with wild stories of escape. There had been deaths; General Willard on a transport ship, shot in the head by a young man who had remained with his General cradling his body, distraught that he had just killed a man he admired. There was the hanger blast on the Mon Cal cruiser Valiant; an explosion caused by a pilot, who had been missing in battle the previous week for only a few hours, firing within the hanger itself. He had survived, many had not.

The pilot had killed himself while awaiting court martial after confessing that the Empire had taken him during the fight.

But not Luke, never Luke.

“Not Luke,” he said aloud, “Never Luke. He’s a Jedi…”

The man nodded, “Yep, a wizard like Vader,” he repeated. “If we get back to the fleet, he needs to be contained.”

“We all do,” Wedge retorted, it had become standard procedure for those who had been in Imperial custody to be confined, medically scanned and psychologically tested. He glimpsed movement at the side of his eye and glanced down the hallway, seeing Luke wheeling his remaining hand in a “come on,” gesture.

They joined him at the empty junction; the conversation fresh and leaving Wedge with a heavy sense of disquiet. Would they be aware if they had been turned; if their minds had been implanted with Imperial conditioning? Wedge shuddered.

Luke squinted at him in concern. “Are you okay?”

Wedge grimaced, trust Luke to pick up on something. “Fine,” he lied. He wasn’t, he hurt like hell, could see that Luke did, too and he didn’t want to admit that Dricken’s…

Dicken? Ducken?

…words had got him. “Let’s just get us out of here.”

Luke hesitated, his eye’s narrowed, the right eye almost closing entirely as he glanced between Wedge and the tall soldier. Then he seemed to shake himself. “We’re nearly out, I think,” he told them, “Exterior door at the bottom of that hallway, I don’t sense anyone there, we could be free and clear.”

“And that doesn’t worry you?” Wedge asked, a little too tersely.

“Of course, it does!” Luke retorted. He sore, exhausted, wanted nothing more than to curl on a bunk and give into his pain. He didn’t want to consider that this had all been a trick of Vader’s; to give hope only to snatch it away. These men depended on him; Wedge depended on him and yet…

… and yet they all knew something was very wrong.

Then he saw Wedge’s eye dart to look at his neck.

Luke’s hand went to his neck, touched the bruise and pinprick of dried blood where he had been injected. He laughed dryly, incredulously. “You think I’m compromised?”

Wedge was quick to deny it. “No!”

Luke glanced to the other two. They all looked away, guilty and shame faced.

Skywalker cursed, “Shit.” After everything he had just done for them. To get them out of their cells, and through the base, to this point and they thought he’d been turned into an Imperial stooge.

Offended, Luke turned away, “We don’t have time for this,” he said bitterly, and he got up and hobbled around the corner not waiting to see if they followed.

Wedge angrily eyed the soldier, Dricken.

_Was it Dricken?_

“He’s fine. Luke would never betray us. Never.”

ooOOoo

They crouched, Wedge sitting, for a few moments at the open doorway blinking in the bright sunlight that streamed in from the open landing field beyond; black smoke billowed in the distance, the smell of smoke, soot and ash hung heavy over the area.

Wedge wiped his palms again, dried the blaster butt with his sleeve, deliberately taking his time to prolong this rest period. Luke needed the break, Wedge needed the break, hell they all needed the break.

None of them were unscathed by their mission to Abarim. All of them had been injured to some degree by the explosion, injuries exacerbated by the manhandling by the Imperials, by the confinement they had endured.

Luke coughed, hacked out phlegm, spat on the ground and sucked in a breath.

Wedge knew Skywalker was suffering. He looked awful, especially in the natural light of the sun; grey, pale lipped. Scarlet puckering of healing burn scars up the side of his head, hair singed off, black bruises, slip lips, swollen cheek under the drooping eyelid. His right hand ended in a stump again, the hand taken by Vader, the replacement prosthetic lost while in custody. The right arm itself now hung, broken and twisted, useless by his side.

Wedge was in some discomfort, but he didn’t want to even begin to imagine the pain that Luke was going through at that moment. He didn’t want to think about the amount of effort it was taking for Luke to remain on his feet and guilt for their last few words lay heavy within him.

He leaned into his friend. “I’m sorry.”

Luke’s lips quirked into a tiny smile. “For what?” He knew of course.

“You know,” Wedge told him.

“I know,” Luke said, and Wedge knew that was the end of it.

He grinned, relieved. “So, what’s the plan.”

A coughed laugh. “You think I’ve had a plan?”

Antilles shook his head, “Never, but I was kinda hoping this once.”

They both looked out, needy, greedily, at the cargo carrier that sat in the middle of the field.

They all felt it. They all knew now. This was some sort of cruel trick of Darth Vader’s; an easy escape, an empty base, and a convenient ship just waiting on them.

 _Are you letting me go, father?_ Luke sent into the Force.

There was no reply, no sense of his father, of his adversary.

_Remember Bespin._

_Remember he came out of nowhere. No presence, no sound. Just his lightsaber slicing down._

Coming to a decision Luke stood, stumbled and was caught by Wedge.

“What are you doing, Luke?”

“Putting an end to this,” Luke told him hoarsely, looking out at the ship, his face pale and grave; resolve set. Wedge could feel Luke’s body trembling with pain, with the effort to stay on his feet. “Whatever game he’s playing, it needs to end.”

And Wedge understood at that moment that Luke didn’t expect any of them to survive this, but he was still going to do his damnedest to try and save them all.

Luke nodded at Wedge, feeling his friend’s understanding. He glanced at the other soldiers, took in their faces, saw the bruises and injuries that they carried from the blast, from ill treatment. He was watched with a mixture of awe and suspicion.

“Okay,” he breathed, and he paused, feeling Wedge’s hand on elbow, steadying him. He closed his eyes, gathered in the Force, sent it around his body to sustain him for what he was about to do.

 _I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me_.

He had to hold it, had to trust in the Force. Had to believe.

_“That is why you fail.”_

Not this time.

Turning away and raising his left hand in surrender, he stepped out from the shelter of the doorway and into the deserted landing field.

He limped slowly across the smooth, well-worn, dirt of the field and looked up at the surrounding durasteel walls, at the unmanned gun emplacements; then down at the piles of packing crates and boxes, looking for movement, searching in the Force for some indication of nearby life.

The Force was quiet.

He sensed no danger and yet…

He stopped, stood; stooped over in pain and effort, right arm held close, left still raised.

He heaved in a breath, feeling the burn in his chest, and shouted. “I’m here!”

He heard a muted curse from one of the Rebels behind him.

Then…

A breath, mechanical, and a black shape stepped out from the cargo vessels loading door and onto the dirt before Luke. He was followed by a squad of Stormtroopers.

The Force shimmered as the veil was removed and bootsteps pounded and armour rattled as the walls filled with troopers, blasters raised; all pointed at him.

Luke huffed out a breath, swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“So you are,” Vader observed, his voice sounded humoured.

“Let them go,” Luke demanded.

Behind him Wedge frowned; it wasn’t “let us go,” it was “them,” and why would Vader listen to Luke in the first place?

“They are Rebels, traitors,” The Dark Lord responded, angrily, “they do not deserve their freedom.”

Luke shuffled his feet, changed his stance, bearing his pain. “Then why?” he asked, “why allow us out, why underman the base, reduce patrols, and leave this ship here?”

“To test your abilities,” Vader responded, “and your weaknesses,” it was a hiss. “It seems your loyalty to your friends is still your greatest failing. I intend on removing that loyalty,” Vader paused, his mask lifting as he looked to the doorway where Wedge and the other’s huddled, and he finished pointedly, emphatically, “my son!”

Luke’s stomach dropped in horror at the revelation of their relationship, at the insinuation that his friends, that Wedge, would be removed, would be killed after all of this.

He ignored the gasps of shock from behind, pained that he heard Wedge’s voice among them.

“Bring them!”

“No!” Luke was desperate. He watched helplessly as more stormtroopers appeared behind the remains of the squad and each was grabbed and dragged out of the doorway and manhandled across the landing field where they were dropped to the ground, forced to kneel before Vader and Luke. “Father, please!”

“Father,” a voice said quietly in disbelief and resignation. Wedge’s voice.

Luke stepped forward on unsteady legs, almost fell and Vader’s hand fell possessively on his shoulder.

“Wedge, please. This isn’t what you think, I…” he tried to shrug off the Dark Lord’s hand, but the gloved fingers curled tightly around his upper arm.

Glancing up at him, Antilles, smiled a self-deprecating, smile. “All this time,” Wedge’s voice broke, “all this time. I trusted you. I believed you! I stood up for you! Defended you! And you lied!

“all this time…” Wedge trailed off.

“Wedge, no…” He pulled against Vader to no avail.

“Execute them,” Vader commanded, dragging Luke back.

Guns raised, pointed at the back of heads – an eerie replay of their initial capture.

“NO!”

There was a blast in the Force, Vader staggered, troopers were propelled backward and tumbled across the landing zone, the kneeling rebels were driven onto their backs and Wedge’s head struck the impacted dirt. He saw sky, bright light and then nothing at all.

Vader caught Luke as the boy collapsed, having used the last of his strength in a futile display of power. He had only delayed the inevitable for his friends, but he had shown his talent with that last burst of rage, the intensity that lay below the surface; the Dark Side stirred within his son, anger and hatred roiled in his heart and Vader knew then that Luke’s fall was inevitable, just as his own had been.

Lifting Luke into his arms, Vader addressed the nearest trooper as the soldier was picking himself up from the ground. “Finish this.”

“Yes, mi’Lord!” He turned and gestured to the troopers and, as Vader strode away carrying the weight of his son, two sharp shots echoed off the walls.

ooOOoo

It hurt waking up.

It hurt a lot.

Limbs hurt, back hurt, head hurt and…

He rolled, vomited, tasted dirt in his dry gags.

_Dirt…_

Reluctantly opening his eyes, blinking away grit, he found himself staring straight into the dead eyes of the ground soldier…

_Dricken. It was Dricken!_

…who had been so disparaging of Luke.

_Luke!_

Wedge pushed himself up, fought against the wave of nausea that churned his belly, and took in the area around him.

He was still on the landing field. The sun was low, the sky darkening, the black smoke from the fires they had set almost invisible in the night sky, and he was alone. Alone except for the two dead squad members. His hand went to his body, checking for a blaster wound, but there was none, just a lump on the back of his head.

He’d been allowed to live.

_Luke._

Fighting against his pain, against his injuries sustained during this failed mission, Wedge struggled to his knees and paused as he caught his breath.

_Luke._

Could it be true? Was Luke…

_“My son!”_

_“Father, please…”_

Gritting his teeth Wedge forced himself to his feet, he staggered, almost fell, but he caught himself, steadied and stood.

The ship was still there.

The cargo vessel.

They had all left. Left him alive, with a ship.

Why?

_Luke._

And Wedge suddenly understood Vader’s motives.

He had been spared to return to the Alliance.

All of this; their capture, their torture, their mock escape and the deaths had all been orchestrated by Vader to retrieve his son and he was to take their relationship back to the Alliance, severing all allegiances and loyalties that Luke held within the Rebellion by doing so. Luke would not renounce the Alliance, so let the Alliance renounce Luke. There would be no going back into the rebellion ranks for Luke Skywalker.

_“Wedge, please. This isn’t what you think…”_

“Shit, Luke,” he breathed to the cooling evening air, recalling the wide-eyed desperation on his friend’s face when he had pleaded with Wedge.

_“This isn’t what you think!”_

“Are you one of us? Were you ever one of us?”

His hand went to his throbbing head, gently palming the lump. This was too much to think about, too much to consider. It was confusing, disorientating. Luke had been his friend, and not once had he ever questioned his friend’s motives; not when Luke had returned from Bespin. Not even when he saw what Luke could do with the Force, the power he had gained in the months after Hoth, and not when he had heard that Luke had gone up against Vader…

_His father!_

… and not when others had begun to question what Luke had become; was becoming.

_But you did…_

_“A wizard, like Vader.”_

Wedge spat dirt from his mouth.

He had no choice, it didn’t matter if he had reservations, he had no choice; he would make his report to the Alliance even if it meant that Luke Skywalker was disavowed.

Turning on his heels, Wedge hobbled to the waiting ship.

ooOOoo

tbc


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke is plunged into a nightmare world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for such a late update. I know I have failed this challenge. 
> 
> I am also sorry as this has become so much darker than I had intended.

** Part Two **

The Princess Leia raced through the corridors of Home One, the Mon Calamari built cruiser the rebellion was currently using as both headquarters and fleet command ship. Leia quickly skirted passed personnel, shouted “excuse me,” “sorry,” and “my fault!” when she knocked packages out of an ensign’s arms and was in too much of a hurry to help pick them up.

Luke’s team was back. They had been missing and out of contact for four days and, with a growing sense of dread, Leia had begun to fear the worst and she’d had to keep herself busy and distracted to keep the darkening thoughts at bay; they’d been killed, they’d been captured. Luke was…

Luke hadn’t been the same since Bespin, since the loss of his hand, since facing Vader. He was quieter, more introspective. He was less impulsive, less rash, taking time to reflect and consider consequences. Perhaps this was down to the trauma he had experienced at Vader’s hands, or perhaps it was the Jedi training that he had briefly told Leia about when she had finally confronted him about his whereabouts after Hoth.

_“I’ve been training,” he told her, looking around the cabin he had been assigned on the ship. It was tiny, cramped, more closet sized, but it was close to the Squadron bunkroom and the hangers and it even had a porthole; the blue of hyperspace churned just centimetres away. He dropped his bag to the floor, it landed light. He didn’t have much in it; he’d lost belongings at Hoth, left other’s behind with his X-Wing at Bespin. He’d been given new fatigues, a new jumpsuit, the essentials of underwear and hygiene products and little else._

_“As a Jedi?” Leia was incredulous, “How? With whom?”_

_“A Jedi Master.”_

_“A Master?” More incredulity. “Luke, the council was wiped out in the purge. My father said…”_

_“Obi-Wan survived, did he?” Luke had bitten back, looking around at her. He regarded her with dark eyes. He looked exhausted._

_Leia felt herself crumble under the intensity of belief in his eyes. If Luke believed it, it must be true. She sank to his bunk. “Who?” She asked, “Which Master?”_

_Luke opened his mouth to speak, drew in a breath, hesitated and closed his lips. He shook his head looking shame faced. “I can’t, Leia. I can’t put him at risk by telling another.”_

_Her fire sparked at this. “Even me?! You can’t tell me!?”_

_“Anyone,” Luke told her, voice slightly raised at this. Then he visibly calmed, and told her quietly, sadly, “I can’t tell anyone.”_

_And Leia had the feeling that Luke was talking about more than just the name of his Jedi Master._

The door to the hanger bay slashed open and she jogged across the deck toward the Imperial cargo carrier. She could see a dark-haired head lowering into the medical capsule and sprinted over, looking alternately between the capsule and the cargo door of the ship.

Where was Luke? Where were the rest of the squad? Had they already gone to medical? To debrief?

_You know they haven’t._

“Wedge,” she breathed heavily, looking down at him when she saw he was awake. He looked in rough shape, bruised, battered, nose and mouth covered by an oxygen mask. His clothes smelled of sweat and smoke. “Are you alright?”

That’s not what she wanted to ask, she wanted to ask; “Where’s Luke?”

“Princess,” he greeted, trying to sit up. He grunted, coughed, closed his eyes, hand going to his head.

A medic intervened, “Captain, that’s not advisable, we need to get you to medical.”

Wedge waved her off, “S’okay, I’m okay,” he told both women, voice rough. He pulled off the mask, lay back. “I.. I’m all that’s left.”

Leia felt the ship tilt and clasped the side of the capsule. “Luke…” she breathed, her fingers tightening, knuckles white.

“He’s… alive,” Wedge told her, and yet he wasn’t reassuring her, there was something about his tone, something that screamed at her not to listen and then he said one word: one name. “Vader.”

Leia swallowed, had to force her words out. “He has him?”

Wedge coughed again and the medic tried to put the mask back over his face, but he waved it away and confirmed Leia’s worst fears. “Yes.”

Leia continued to clutch at the capsule, her legs trembling.

_Not Luke. Not Luke._

_Han, I need you._

_Damn you, Vader._

_My home. My people. My father. My Mother. My dignity. My lover. My…_

She took in a breath, steadied herself. She was a princess of Alderaan, a leader of the Rebellion and she could not…

_Would not._

…give in to these feelings. She absolutely would not allow Vader another victory and so she clung to her hope and said what Han would say, what Luke would say. “Then we’ll get him back,” she announced, resolutely, “Find out where they took him and…”

And then Wedge uttered the impossible and that was the cruellest thing of all, for the sheer truth of it crushed the small hope she nurtured.

“He’s… Vader’s son.”

ooOOoo

On wakening Luke found the uninjured side of his face pressing against the deck plates of the shuttle and had been surprised to find that he had been placed into the recovery position rather than just dumped in a heap, or locked away in a tiny cargo hold. His view was of grey metal and white boots. He’d had to fight against his initial impulse to move, to fight against those who sat on the benches around him, watching him, guarding him; he really could not afford to be further injured.

Vader was behind him; he could feel him, sense his bulk, hear his breathing and could feel the Dark Lord’s satisfaction that at last he was awake, and Luke had tentatively reached out within the Force. But all he had felt was Vader’s darkness; it filled the passenger area as surely as that mechanical breathing filled the silence. Vader was flames and frost. Hot, searing, rage. Cold, frozen, hatred.

Both burned.

And Luke kept the Force close to him, did not dare try and reach out to his father again.

He had lain in silence, fighting his pain, fighting his panic, but eventually he had slept; too hurt, too exhausted to stay awake. His body needed the rest, needed the time to heal.

It had been a jolt of turbulence that had awakened him again; the shuttle dropping, and rising again, the engines compensating for the difference between space flight and atmospheric flight.

Luke swallowed, his throat hurting. His face stung from the burns, and from the blows from Vader, his eye swollen. His body ached from the blast waves on Abarim, from the beatings received from his father’s prison guards. His right arm was a ruined mess and so painful that the whole limb felt doused in liquid heat.

_It is you and your abilities the Emperor wants…_

Ben’s warning.

Was that where Vader was taking him? Straight to Imperial Centre? Coruscant of old? The seat of the Empire?

Did he have the strength to fight Palpatine and his father? To stand alone against them?

He didn’t think he did. He thought they would surely kill them.

_Join him._

It was whisper in the Force, a suggestion. A seduction.

_Join him. Join him._

_Take his hand, Jedi._

More than one voice, more than…

The shuttle shook again, the very fabric of the craft juddering and bouncing. He felt the troopers stiffen, felt Vader stir, felt his father’s eyes on him and…

_Join him._

_Or suffer._

_Die, Jedi._

And Darkness assaulted him. A sudden strike, a brutal hammer blow to his senses, as the shuttle rattled. Luke recoiled, a natural, instinctive, reaction to the depravity, the sheer wickedness, that battered him. He jerked on the floor, legs kicking out, pushed himself up, saw and felt the bracing of the soldiers as they prepared to subdue him.

_Death_.

He could feel it. He didn’t need to reach out to touch the Force; it came to him. Sliding and shifting over his body, hissing and sniggering in his ears as it whispered entreaties.

_Let us in Jedi… let us show you the Dark Side._

_You have power, let us make you powerful._

He squeezed eyes shut, desperately tried to push the invading malevolence away.

_Do not fight us._

_Join us._

This was not Vader’s darkness, although he was a part of it, this was…

“Bring him,” Vader commanded, suddenly standing as the entry ramp cracked open and a hiss of hot air carried in smoke, steam and stench.

This place was rotten. Luke could feel it; not just in the volcanic environment that leached into the shuttle with the lowering ramp. The smell of releasing sulphur, the rumble of ground quakes, the popping and bubbling of thick liquid, the taste of ash, smoke and hot air was nothing compared to the sheer corruption of this place.

_Come Jedi._

_Come to us._

_Join us._

The soldiers around him moved. Armoured hands grabbing the fabric of his stolen jacket and hauling him to his feet. Luke grunted at the rough handling, having no strength to better voice his pain. His legs folded, and they bladed their hands under his arms, until their elbows supported him, cupped his shoulders with their palms, and grasped his elbows with their other hands, pushing his arms forward and locking them. Rivulets of pain undulated through the fractures of his right arm and he felt the phantom fingers of his missing hand flex in response.

They dragged him, backward, after his father. He couldn’t see where he was going, could only see the interior of the ship receding as his bare heels scrapped on the deck of the shuttle, on the ramp and on the landing pad of…

What was this place?

The scenery beyond the shuttle was a nightmare landscape. He had known the atmosphere was volcanic, had recognised the smells, the sounds, the heat from a mission to Nevarro, but this…

This place was something much different. Nevarro, despite the Imperial presence was natural; its volatility was a result of weaknesses in the ground crust, of building pressures of collecting gasses beneath the surface and racing magma, but this place.

This place was corruption.

He could feel it. It was a dark place, a debauched place. Like the cave on Dagobah it harnessed and held the Dark Side of the Force. But, the cave on Dagobah was small, was concentrated in a sole area and could be contained.

This place, this planet, was darkness on a scale that he hadn’t thought possible. It terrified him, the hot winds took the breath from him, raked an already burned throat and lungs making breathing difficult. He gulped air, chest heaving hard.

Grimacing in pain Luke, squeezed his eyes shut against it all, tried to push the Darkness away, but it slithered away from him, teasing and playing. Whispering.

_Soon Jedi._

_You will be ours._

_One of us._

_You want it._

There was a deep rumble, a tremor shuddered the ground and Luke opened his eyes to see the receding shuttle sitting on the landing pad with a geyser of molten lava erupting close behind it. He involuntarily cried out as the liquid rock fell toward them only to hit against a shield that shimmered and shifted with power. Hissing, the shield repelled the lava.

What was this place?

He twisted his body, craned his neck trying to see where they were taking him and saw an immensely tall, black, building rising high above them as though grown out of the supporting rock formation. It forked into two tines; towers that rose into a sky cast red and black from the volcanic scenery surrounding them.

_This is where Jedi come to die._

It was almost a giggle.

_You will die, here._

_Or join us, be one of us._

He jerked in the troopers’ grip, feet scrabbling on the duracrete, trying to find purchase, as he was cruelly wrenched forward, the soldier’s tightening their holds. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry out….

Don’t take me there!

…but he refused to give Vader…

His _father!_

_…_ the satisfaction.

Instead he closed his eyes, went limp to conserve his energy, and allowed the soldiers to take his weight as the whisperers breathed through the Force, voices gathering into a cacophony of warnings, entreaties and promises. There were so many, so many, voices…

_Come, Jedi._

_You will die here._

_Join us._

_Join him._

_You have power._

_Become powerful._

_Or die._

_Be one of us._

_Become us._

_You have darkness._

_Let your darkness grow._

It was becoming harder to make out words, so hard to listen as the noise in the Force grew to a harsh disharmony; a white noise of discorded melodies that grew louder with each step toward the towering structure. He could barely hear the doors rumble apart, could barely sense the change from outside into inside, but as he was taken passed the doors and into the building, he could feel the glee, the sickening delight.

_You are ours. One of us. Die Jedi. Become us. Powerful. Ours. Join us. Be us._

And, just as the doors began to close, just before the monstrous landscape and the red tinged light was severed by the closing door, and just before he passed out, Luke thought he heard one last voice rise above the many: one last plea.

_Anakin… Don’t do this._

ooOOoo

It was the jostling of his body as the soldiers changed their grips that wakened him this time. He just had enough time to realise what was happening and to reach out with his left arm to break his fall when the troopers dropped him, threw him, to the floor. Luke grunted at the impact, bit back a cry as the pain washed over his body. Then there was a scrape, a slam, as a barred door slashed down to separate him from the soldiers and his father.

He was on his knees, panting, lungs still burning from the aftereffects of breathing in smoke and heat on Abarim. Left hand on the warm floor, fingers splayed wide on the rough scuffed surface to take his weight. Right arm held close to his body.

“Leave us,” Vader commanded and the stormtroopers turned and left, footsteps receding away to silence, leaving father and son alone.

Luke risked a glance at Vader, it was so dull, so dim, in this place that he could barely make his father out through the lattice of the bars. Another wave of pain hit him, and he grimaced feeling the tight burn scars pull on his face as he did so.

“More torture,” he rasped. It wasn’t really a question; it was an expectation.

“That depends of your point of view,” Vader rumbled, his voice harsh and threatening in tone.

Luke nodded, then regretted the movement. “What else would you call this?”

Vader didn’t immediately answer, allowing only his breathing to fill the silent tension between father and son, between Dark Lord and Jedi Knight. “A reckoning.”

Luke laughed; it was more of a barking cough. “I…,” he heaved in a breath. The air felt heavy, warm, humid. “I won’t tell you anything.”

Vader took a step closer to the cell door. “I’m not asking anything,” he growled. He abruptly turned, his cape flicking against the bars, and he strode away.

A door slammed further up a corridor and Luke could no longer hear his father’s footsteps or his mechanised breathing. He let out a puff of breath, heaved in another, coughed and steeled his resolve, braced himself for movement.

Gingerly he turned on his knees and pushed himself up, grimacing as his battered body protested and he had to bite back a cry. He peered into the gloom, trying to make out his surroundings. His cell was tiny, little more than a two-metre square space, but at least it gave some space for him to lie down. He squinted at the walls with dawning horror; there was no fresher, no vac tube.

_This could get messy…_

He reached out and up with his left hand, grabbed a bar of the door and, again after bracing himself against the inevitable pain, he hauled himself to his feet. His knees almost went from him, but he locked his fingers onto the metal and spread his legs for balance. His muscles trembled with the effort and he broke out in a sweat…

W _ell, it is hot in here._

…but he stayed on his feet. Narrowing his eyes, he looked out of the door, trying to see beyond his own little enclosure. The atrium, if you could call it that, seemed to be hexagonal, with a cell on each edge. He could just make out the lattice of bars on the doors opposite.

“Heh….” He cleared his throat. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Anyone else here?”

No answer. No sense of company.

He was alone.

Luke lowered himself to the floor, settled in the dust and dirt with his back against the bars. He needed to time to heal, he needed to sleep and conserve his energy; then, once he was strong enough, he could start figuring a way out of here. He let his head drop, closed his eyes, feeling sweat beads trickle down his nose. He wiped them off with the sleeve of his stolen jacket, licked his lips.

He needed water and soon. Unless, of course, he was being left here to die.

_Jedi._

He jerked his head up. Feeling hope, feeling dread.

“Hello?” He called, “Is someone there?”

_Jedi._

A sense of a presence. A sense of many, seeping, crawling, leaching into the cell block, into his cell.

A touch in the Force and Luke jerked away at the malignancy. “No,” he protested. “Please.”

_Poor, young, Jedi._

A stroke on his burned face and Luke hissed in pain, pulling away but unable to move very far in the constricting place.

_Join us._

_Be us._

Fingers moving through his hair.

He batted them away with his remaining hand.

_You are ours._

_Ours._

Pressure on his injured arm and Luke cried out in pain and horror at the invisible attack. What was this? Who was this? He crawled to the opposite wall, and something grabbed his legs and pulled.

_Feel us._

_Feel the Dark Side._

He was on his back and a weight descended, pinning him down.

_Suffer, Jedi._

_As we do._

_Fear us._

_Be one of us._

_Soon._

“No,” Luke moaned, wanting to put his hands over his ears, wanted to shut out the crowding, cloying evil he knew was in this place. He wanted to curl into a ball, he wanted to deny this was happening. “Don’t.”

Pressure on his chest, making breathing difficult. He pulled, he jerked. He panicked.

_Die, Jedi!_

_Join us!_

Voices, so many voices within the Force. It felt depraved, corrupt and he wanted to reel in his senses, wanted to feel nothing at all.

_Soon._

_Soon you will be ours._

_You will join him._

_You will be him._

Hands on him, all over. Hurting.

Luke struggled uselessly, opened his mouth to scream and was immediately silenced as something…

_Someone!_

…was forced into his mouth and down his throat. The voices joined in chorus, celebrating.

_Jedi!_

_Jedi!_

The malicious laughter of many resonated, and Luke shrieked into the Force.

_“Father!”_

ooOOoo

Luke was curled on the floor on the cell right arm still held close to his body, his left arm cradling it. Even in unconsciousness the pain he was in was etched on his features, brows down in a grimace, little tremors rippling through his body. He’d shrugged off the jacket he had stolen from the medic on Abarim and thrown it in a corner, it was simply too hot in this place to wear heavy fabric, and Vader could see the stark, black purple, bruises adorning his son’s torso, the red burns searing the remains of his right arm.

It seems that Luke had attempted to save his squad on Abarim when the explosives they had planted had detonated early. Security footage had shown their run, had shown Luke planting his feet and holding the raging fire back with the Force, and screaming for his men to go.

His control, his power, was impressive.

As the blast door had rolled shut the traitor, Wedge Antilles, had grabbed Luke and dragged him backward; Luke’s arm had been caught between the closing doors, and Antilles had pulled him sideways, snapping the bones in his arm, as heat and flames had licked greedily through the gap. His son had screamed in agony, much like his cry on Bespin when Vader had taken his hand. In a matter of seconds, Luke’s prosthetic was crushed and scorched, his arm seared, his hair caught, and flames had dripped down the side of his head and face.

The following wave of sonic discharge had killed all the security cameras.

Vader took in a slow breath, watching Luke twitch in his sleep. This was not what he had wanted for his son, not what he had planned when he had offered Luke his hand on Bespin.

This is what the boy had chosen when he had rejected him.

_“Take him to Mustafar, my friend. You know what to do. But, be warned, Lord Vader, there is to be no more entreaties to join you._

_Make him mine.”_

This is what Palpatine had chosen.

Another regulated breath, another tremor through his child’s slender body.

“Open it,” he ordered the soldiers with him, although they were not his to command. These silent, robed, men reported only to Palpatine. “Bring him.”

A red gloved hand disengaged the lock of the cell door and another set of hands grabbed Luke’s legs and dragged him from the cell, scraping his back along the rough floor.

Luke yelled, awake, immediately reacting, feet kicking and arms flailing in a vain effort to protect himself. A couple of strikes from a force pike and Luke was subdued enough to be hauled to unsteady feet and fastened in the guard’s tight holds.

Vader stepped up and Luke’s heavy, tired, scared eyes flickered to his own and, just for a second, Vader thought he saw a flash of madness there.

This place exacted a heavy cost on captives.

Then it was gone, and Luke’s eyes darkened, and his gaze fell away.

Without a word Vader turned and strode away, knowing the guards would follow.

ooOOoo

Luke yelped when he was dumped on a durasteel floor and the cloaked soldiers took a step back. The floor he lay upon was once smooth and polished, but now it was rough, scraped, with large long gouges in the surface; the edges of which looked melted.

_Yep, stare at the floor and not at what really matters, Luke._

His eyes watered with pain and his brief burst of humour died. He squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing, fighting the agony of his body and the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He swallowed it down, panted, grasped for the Force for strength, but found its tendrils swaying teasingly out of reach. Frustrated, defeated, he let out a breath, and lowered his head to the floor. Even here on the upper levels of this place the floor was uncomfortably warm.

His head pounded from dehydration, his mouth was parched, his stomach sick. His heart was racing, and he didn’t know if that was from terror or lack of water.

“Get up,” Vader commanded. His tone brooking no disobedience.

Luke knew he had to obey, knew if he didn’t do what the Dark Lord…

_his father_!

...wanted that he would suffer for it. He heaved in breath, reached for the Force again only to have it snatched away, and he risked a glance up at Vader knowing that Vader was keeping him from it.

Anger stirred.

And suddenly it was there! It was around him, through him, in him! And it was strong, potent.

_Be one of us!_

_Jedi…_

Luke grasped it, greedily drinking it in as though it was the fluid his body so badly needed. With his left hand he pushed himself up to his knees, pausing when pain undulated through his ruined right arm, bone fragments rubbing against each other, his missing hand aching terribly as phantom nerves tricked him. He damped the pain, forced it down and found his feet.

He stood, swaying a little, and lifted darkened eyes to his father.

Vader smiled beneath the mask, meeting his son’s hardened gaze, feeling pride in his son’s courage and strength. Luke had been soundly beaten; his body broken…

_Burned, like your own_

…but his spirit was wild; tempestuous. The Force squalled within Luke, and he could sense his son grasping to it for strength, could feel Luke’s rage, loathing, fear and the deepening shadows within his weakened body, could feel the resolve to stay true to the Jedi waver when faced with the alternative destiny that Mustfar offered him.

_Offered?_

_No. Forced upon him._

_Tricked, manipulated, as you were manipulated._

_You forget yourself, Lord Vader._

Vader tossed away that last, warning, thought that suddenly arose. Dampened down any doubts that this _had_ to happen. That Luke had to turn. He could not hesitate again when it came to his son, could not lose his child to the light, or to death.

He must obey his master.

Vader allowed a cycle of breath to calm him and he drew upon the Force for the power do to what he must.

“Kneel,” he commanded.

Luke faltered, almost fell. He took a step forward to steady himself, felt the guards behind him tense. He raised his chin again, once more fighting ill placed humour; he was to kneel, when he’s only just got up?

_Seriously, father?_

He raised his chin, much like he had in the Carbon Freeing Chamber on Cloud City when the Dark Lord had told him that Obi-Wan had known his destiny belonged to Vader. He gave the same answer, no matter the consequences. “No!”

Only this time his voice was merely a dry whisper.

Vader gave another smile at the conviction in Luke’s reply. The resistance, the resolve in that one word. If only his son knew what lay ahead.

Another brief pause, another breath. He could, of course, nod to his master’s red clad guards and they would put Luke on his knees, but… no… Luke had to find his own way to the floor.

Vader nodded his head once and the red guards backed away. Luke licked his peeling, dry lips, body tense, unsure of what was happening and took his first glance around the room. It was cavernous, grey durasteel walls, floor and… he looked up, the ceiling was high with walkways and gantries crisscrossing above from which hung the lights. Like the floor, the walls were scratched and gouged.

Luke was momentarily lost as to what this place was; until his father unhooked his lightsaber from his belt and ignited it. His eye’s flared with a sudden surge of fear and he swallowed, unsure of his father’s intentions, but understanding of what this hall was crashed home.

_Jedi were killed here._

_First tormented and tortured._

_Executed._

Vader turn his hand, twisted his wrist and his red blade did a slow loop. Luke swallowed, watching closing, body aching, the burns on his face hot and smarting. Vader took a step forward. Luke took a step back, body tense, legs trembling, adrenalin surging.

There was an abrupt warning in the Force, milliseconds to react, before Vader lunged bringing his saber down and across in a vicious diagonal swipe. Luke dropped, rolled and ended on his back, looking up to find the tip of Vader’s saber inches from his face.

_Well, this was familiar._

Vader stepped back, lowering his blade. “Get up.”

Luke’s body was screaming in agony, new bruises already flaring. He lay trying to catch his breath, trying to fight against the pain, the fear. “I can’t,” he gasped. “Just… get it… over with.”

Better to die now than allow his father to play with him like a loth-cat with a loth-rat.

_Hey, that rhymes!_

Luke grinned, feeling laughter bubble within. It felt like madness.

Maybe it was.

_You will die, Jedi_

_You will be us!_

Vader frowned at the smile that broke out on Luke’s face, the flash of humour in his son’s blue eyes. He felt the Force shift around them, felt it shimmer darkly. His son was expecting to die.

He would be disappointed.

“Get up,” he said again.

Luke wearily laid his head on the floor. “No,” he said simply.

Surging rage at the open defiance drove Vader forward, he held his lightsaber back, but with his free hand he reached down and grabbed his errant son by the upper arm. Luke squawked in pain as he was dragged up and set on unsteady legs.

“You will learn to obey,” Vader growled in warning, pointing a finger in Luke’s face; red saber still humming in his other hand.

Luke’s head was reeling, dizzy, he staggered, caught himself, not wanting to drop like an empty sack at Vader’s feet. Rising anger at Vader’s words gave him strength and he lifted his eyes again to his father’s mask. “Uncle Owen failed, what makes you think you’ll do any better,” he took a breath and rasped out, “father,” with as much loathing and contempt as he could muster.

He had expected to be run through, decapitated, or simply back handed into next week. He hadn’t expected his father to nod, he hadn’t expected his father to deactivate his lightsaber and he hadn’t expected praise.

“Good,” Vader told him, sounding for a moment like a pleased master, “your hatred has given you strength, your anger; power.”

Luke closed his eyes in regret of his feelings, knowing he had just lost a battle. No matter how natural his emotions may be for this situation, he knew they did not belong to a Jedi.

And then Vader did something surprising. He tossed his lightsaber into the air, caught it and held the hand grip out to Luke.

“Take it,” he invited.

Squaring his shoulders, Luke stared at the offered sword, head giddy with temptation.

_Take it._

_Take it._

_Kill him._

_Use it._

_Do it._

_You want this._

Could he do this? Did he have the strength to wield it? To kill Vader? To Kill his father?

_Be one of us._

It was trick. Had to be. Vader wouldn’t just allow him to take it.

Still the outstretched hand…

_“Join me, and together we can rule the Galaxy as father and son! Come with me_!”

He could end this, right now.

_Yes, Jedi…_

_Yes._

Keeping his eyes on his father Luke shuffled forward on unsteady legs. His hand trembled as he lifted it and he reached out, wrapping his fingers around the hilt of the offered lightsaber and, for a moment, both father and son held the same sword.

It happened quickly.

With a cry that was both pain and hope, Luke lunged forward with his remaining strength, pressing the activation stud as he moved.

Vader was no longer there; with an effort that belied his size and weight, the Dark Lord had leapt up and over to land behind his son. He reached out a hand and a force pike wrenched from a Red Guard, it flew across the room into his own hand. He ignited the vibro edged blades; they thrummed as Vader stalked back to Luke.

Luke had stumbled forward when his lunge met no resistance, ending up down on one knee, Vader’s saber gashing a new rut into the floor. The Force suddenly screamed at him and he moved, rolling to the side as the pike was thrust down, barely missing him.

Another strike with the staff, another, and another; Vader allowing no relief for Luke’s injured state, no respite. Luke rolled and dodged on the floor, until fatigue slowed him, and the vibrating edge caught his shoulder. He screamed his pain, his rage, and he scissored his legs trying to catch Vader’s as the pike fell again.

This time Luke met it with the lightsaber. The blade sparked against the vibro-edge.

Luke huffed a breath. Lying on his back, with failing strength, he was pushing up the blade with his one hand, fruitlessly trying to force his father back, trying to stop his father from pushing both the pike and lightsaber down and onto, into, him.

He was losing.

Vader feigned, pulled back, and with nothing keeping it in check, the lightsaber swept up and to the side, leaving Luke exposed. One pike edge came down on his left arm, striking his wrist, knocking the lightsaber from his grasp. Vader spun the melee weapon spearing the air centimetres from Luke’s throat.

In a moment of madness, of sheer despair, like that on Bespin when he had jumped, Luke thrust his throat up.

Vader stepped back, lifting the pike away to a cry of denial from his son.

The Dark Lord ignored the convoluted feelings that raged from his distraught son; the anguish and desolation at being denied death yet again. Vader had known the pike would not kill, it was at its lowest setting; something that Luke had not realised, after all the boy still had his left hand.

He turned away, retrieved his lightsaber simply by opening his palm. He strode to the doorway of the large hall, addressing the Red Guards as he went. “Take him to his accommodation.”

Horror rattled through Luke at Vader’s words. That place, that hot dank cell, where the silky guileful whispers of sinister spectres hissed and sighed entreaties and threats. That touched him, pulled him, tugged him and forced themselves onto him, into him.

_Come to us Jedi…_

He pushed up, fell back, exhausted.

_Please, please…_

Was he saying it aloud?

Did he care?

The soldiers were approaching, closing in. Crowding.

_I hate you!_

Vader turned at the twist in the Force from his son.

The guards took Luke’s arms and hauled him to his feet. He wanted to shout, he wanted to scream his denials. He wanted to struggle, to fight. He wanted to plead, to please, _please_ , don’t put me back there.

He did not cry out. He would not give Vader any more satisfaction. He raised his head, limped with the guards, refusing to look at his father as they passed him at the open portal.

The floor beneath them shuddered as another ground quake rumbled beneath the massive building.

_Come, Jedi._

_Come to us._

ooOOoo

to be continued....


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A situation has to get worse before it can get better. 
> 
> Both Luke and Vader have their own horrors to face.

** Smoke **

** Part Three **

****

Vader suffered the indignities of the droids removing his suit, his armour and helmet, his respirator and his prosthetics as they prepared him for immersion into the waiting Bacta tank. He suffered through the few moments of gasping for breath as he always did before they fitted the mask and ventilator that would sustain him while he soaked in the healing, viscous, substance. He suffered lying, helpless, on the table; limbless, breathless and utterly reliant on others for his life.

Suffered.

He was all pain. Limbs aching from the use of prosthetics, nerves firing hotly from working harder to move the heavy, artificial, limbs. His lungs burned in agony as oxygen was forced into them. His burn scars stretched and tugged. The skin, in places delicate and fragile, could burst and bleed with movement. Others were thick, gnarled, red keloids that hampered him. There were times he could emerge from the suit with large rips and tears if he had been particularly energetic.

Times like his duel with the Jedi Koth, the fight on Malachor, Vrogas Vas, and Bespin.

Cloud City.

There he had suffered as never before. Luke had scored a hit on his shoulder, and although the wound was painful, it was nothing compared to the tear across his back that had wept blood and fluid as a result from his fall from the Carbon Freezing platform. Both injuries had fuelled his rage, his frustration, and powered his brutal assault on his son.

However, it was not the pain of his injuries that caused him suffering.

Vader fought the thoughts, struggled against the burgeoning truth.

_You grow weak, Lord Vader…_

His son’s horror and rejection on Bespin had shattered him. The confrontation had not gone as planned…

_An understatement, my young padawan._

…Luke had proven to be as quick minded as he was quick footed; a talented, if somewhat unpractised, swordsman. He was inventive, tenacious and determined.

_Much like his mother._

_Need that, he does not._

Vader growled under his breath, under the clear mask, as the droids fastened the straps of the harness around his upper torso. These voices… these whispers of the past that invaded his thoughts were as troubling to him as the ghouls of Mustafar were to Luke. Teasing and tempting him with possibilities, if he would just reach out and accept them, grasp them and…

…and what? He was a creature of Darkness. A creation of Darth Sidious, sculpted from murder and death, from hatred and despair, from fear and power.

_Don’t do this, Anakin. You’re a good person._

Vader closed his eyes against the image of his wife standing before him, pleading with him, impeaching him to come back to her. He could smell the smoke and sulphur, could feel the heat and see the orange and red light of the landing platform and although cooler, although the lights of the Carbon Freezing Chamber had been suffused with blue hues, it had reminded him of Mustafar and his son…

_Her son_.

…standing resolute below him, had reminded him of Padme.

Yes, he had suffered after Bespin.

A harness was fitted about him and he was lifted and placed over the filling bacta tank. The fluid gurgled and splashed as it ran into the cistern and it felt warm, soothing, as he was lowered in to bathe, to rest and recharge.

“A sedative, my Lord?” A droid offered as always.

Vader drew in a breath and, for the first time in many years, answered; “Yes.”

ooOOoo

Luke had passed out in the soldier’s grips in the journey from the killing hall to the detention centre. Too weary, too sore, too dehydrated to keep consciousness about him, his mind had given him a few minutes of respite before he was rudely and painfully awakened when the door of his cell squealed open and he was roughly thrown in. His eyes opened as the floor rushed him and, with no time to react, he landed hard, his face smacking onto the surface.

And all was black and quiet once more.

He woke slowly, eyes opening to the mute light of the holding cell, then sliding closed. Feeling pain in his face, feeling the heat of his unhealed burns, the throbbing from the ruined stump of his arm, the rawness of his thigh. Then feeling nothing at all. The taste of blood in his mouth, wet and metallic, the pounding of his headache, nausea in his gut and then it all went away for a while.

He did not dream.

He had lain for several moments, staring one eyed at the surface of the floor and the bottom of the cell door before he realised he was fully awake and lying in a crumpled heap with one side of his face, sore and swollen, pressed to the ground. His injured arm was trapped under his body, his left arm was lying across his back, hand resting in the hollow of the small of his back; his legs were bent and splayed.

He shivered, feeling a wave of coldness undulate through his body, he felt sweat trickle down his temple. The floor seemed undulate beneath him, the walls swayed in and back out, in and out, in and out, as though breathing and his stomach turned with the false sense of motion sickness. He closed his eye against the movement, but the darkness behind his eyelid, swirled with bright colours; reds and oranges, yellows and purples, each swooping toward him and pulling away.

He gagged, retched, his beaten body protesting painfully against every movement. He shivered again, teeth rattling with cold and still he sweated.

He knew what this was. He’d had a high fever as a child, had spent several days in and out of consciousness and had come to in the small Anchorhead medical centre with both his Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen sitting by his bedside. Those few days had resulted in a debt that had taken his guardians several years to pay off, and all because he had cut open his hand on the casing of a vaporator he and Owen were trying to repair and an infection had set in.

Well, he had more than a few cuts now. He giggled at that, not really knowing why he found it funny, only knowing that he would die in this place, in this dirt.

_Yes, Jedi…_

Fear lanced through him at the whisper, fear of whatever was in this place with him. Echoes of prisoners past? Poor unfortunates who had found themselves dying here in loneliness and pain? Or were the voices more?

_More…_

The word was hunger and want.

Luke shivered, grunted, closed his one eye and gritted his teeth against the resulting surge of pain.

Was this his father’s plan; to deny him a quick death? To allow him to suffer in pain and torment as his life was slowly drained away by sickness and corruption?

_Not your father…_

Luke opened his eye, this was different. This voice was sadness, this voice was… He opened his mouth, tried to speak and croaked out. “He… llo?”

_…no death, Luke._

He shuddered with cold, turned his head and pressed his hot forehead against the floor, pressing hard against the awful pounding in his brain.

_Move, Luke, get up. Fight!_

There was desperation in the voice, an awful fear.

Fear for him.

_No… Jedi… stay down…_

Another crept in, voice silky and tempting.

_Lie down and join us…_

_Give yourself to darkness._

_Jedi…._

_Come with to us._

_Join us._

_Be one of us._

He could feel them, sense them creeping in, sliding and crawling toward him. He could feel their hunger, their eagerness to have him. To keep him in this place.

_There is peace in darkness. Join us._

_No! Luke…_

The one, lone, voice was softer, muffled in the background, pushed back by the swarming of the others.

_…my child, get up!_

_My child?_

With effort Luke forced his eye open and lifted his head. He felt the crust of blood break from the floor, he felt the swelling pulse in his face as he tried to open his other eye. He could see nothing in the cell; but he could sense them, feel them within the Force. They slithered around him, circling like carrion crows.

_Luke,_ she spoke again. _Fight!_

He could feel their anger, their ire and rage. Their voices rose, shouting loudly to drown out the dissenter, the noise vibrated in the Force and pounded in Luke’s head. It rose, and rose, higher and higher, louder and louder, a cacophony of noise that only grew shriller and shriller until…

Luke pushed himself up, yelling aloud from the pain and torture. “Stop it!” he screamed into the empty cell block. He shoved out with his terror, with his anger and desperation. The steel of the doors vibrated, singing darkly; hit with the power of his anguish. “Stop it!”

Silence.

Luke was on his knees, blood flowing from his nose. He swayed for a few moments, trembled, and collapsed backward. He lay still, breathing hard, blood bubbling in one nostril, staring up at the ceiling, seeing and feeling nothing as he silently mouthed one word.

“Father…”

ooOOoo

_orange and red light_

_flickering flames_

_popping bubbles of boiling rock_

_“Anakin…”_

_turning_

_looking_

_searching_

_“Anakin…”_

_hot wind_

_hot air_

_a ship_

_her ship_

_the Separatives_

_lying dead behind him_

_she can’t see what I’ve done_

_what I have become_

_“Anakin…”_

_turning_

_there she stands_

_“Anakin…”_

_her hand lowers to her belly_

_red and orange glow plays across her skin_

_shines in her eyes_

_“Anakin…”_

_her dead eyes_

_fingers splay across her pregnant swelling_

_her child_

_their child_

_is cradled within the womb_

_“Anakin…”_

_his boots ring on the platform as he runs to her_

_he tries to speak her name_

_the word won’t come_

_he gasps as hot air surges in his chest_

_constricts his breathing_

_he reaches for her_

_no hand_

_no arm_

_a wretched, seared stump_

_he falls_

_looks up from hot, black ash_

_flames lick his flesh_

_she stands_

_above him_

_her belly moves, small undulating waves_

_the child within_

_Luke_

_“Anakin…”_

_Luke_

_“father…”_

_a wretched voice, a whisper_

_malice slices the word_

_son_

_she fades, and in her wake he sees_

_pale_

_gaunt_

_hunched_

_eyes red rimmed and sickly yellow_

_his son_

_dressed in black_

_the red and orange of the light lost, devoured, among the folds in his robes_

_sith_

_Luke!_

_his voice, his son’s voice, wicked_

_“father…”_

_“Anakin…”_

_and she’s there_

_beside their child_

_crying_

_tears glistening in volcanic light_

_his son laughs_

_a snap, a hum, a red blade_

_the son turns on the mother_

_blade high to strike_

_as his father reaches for her_

_a cry on his lips_

_“Padme!”_

Vader’s eyes snapped open. He flailed in horror, still reaching for his dead wife, and his prosthetic arm struck against the nearest medical droid. It staggered back, motors whining as it attempted to balance itself.

“Lie still, my Lord,” a monotone, uncaring voice, stated. “You have been dreaming and are disorientated. We are almost finished reassembling you.”

Reassembling.

As though he were some sort of droid.

Hot fury surged, and he grasped for it; the power that it gifted him and sent it out is all directions. All his fear, all his terror, his grief and rage…

The droids crowded around him flew backwards, scattering to strike hard against the chamber walls, the central bacta tank exploded, propelling shards of transparisteel like thrown blades to thud and crack against the black walls many embedding themselves in the structure. Red guards dropped; dead and injured. Bacta splattered the room, pooling thickly on the floor with the blood.

Vader tore himself up, stumbled forward on heavy legs much like he had on that first day when the prosthetics, and the grief, were new to him.

Helmetless, maskless, lungs heaving for air, he gasped, “Padme...” before sinking to his knees; felled by the lack of oxygen.

ooOOoo

With eyes closed Luke lay still, too exhausted to move. The shivering had stopped. The sweat had dried. His thirst was rampant now, mouth and throat dry, lips sore from useless licking. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, his breathing almost as rapid, quick little gasps of parched air.

He was too hot.

_Suns must be high…_

He needed to move, he needed to get up, he needed to get home.

_Uncle Owen will throw a fit!_

He lay still.

He tried to swallow and choked on nothing; dry coughing racking his body.

_Soon, Jedi…. Soon._

Soon. Soon would be good.

Forcing his eyes open, he stared up at the muted light above him. His head turned with dizziness, the lights twisting and dancing above him. Sleepily he closed his eyes again. He knew what this was. You learned about dehydration early on Tatooine. Water was life and Luke could not remember when he last had a drink.

He was burning with fever; he knew infection was loosed upon his body. He was dying… and he didn’t care, although he knew he should.

_One of us._

They were back, slithering and hissing around him.

_Come, Jedi._

_Join us._

_Soon._

Was she with them? That one sweet voice that had begged him to fight?

_Reach for us._

No. She was silent.

Gone.

_Only darkness can save you._

_Reach…_

Reach.

For what?

_Reach out, Jedi._

A touch, a hand, freezing cold on his hot skin _._

Luke didn’t flinch from it, didn’t react, didn’t pull away even as others crowded around him in hungry anticipation.

_Reach, Jedi._

_Come with us…_

_And he was surrounded with a deep blue grey, small white and red lights winking up and down the enormous shaft that stretched for kilometres above and below him. The winds around him blew coldly, beating against his already battered body as he clutched desperately at the piping with one hand, fighting to keep upright, fighting to keep his mind focused and body from falling._

_Horror, sheer, unadulterated horror shattered through him, tearing the denial from deep within. “No! No! That’s not true! That’s impossible.”_

_The remains of his right arm crested in pain, throbbing, even as he pressed it against his body._

_“Search your feelings you know it to be true!”_

_The truth was before him. Stark and brutal and still he railed against it. “No! No!”_

_“Luke,” the black beast before him used his name, his first name. It sounded possessive, it sounded like a father come to take his son. “You do not yet realise your importance; you have only begun to discover your power. You can destroy the Emperor; he has foreseen this. It is your destiny. Join me, and we can rule the Galaxy as father and son!” It was a growl, it was…_

_… he looked around. He looked around for a way out. He looked down and suddenly he knew what to do. He knew what was expected of him. Luke lifted his head, his eyes finding his father’s mask, knowing the man within was seeing him. Triumph bloomed within…_

_Watch me, father._

_“Come with me, it is the only way,” the gloved hand reached out, fingers stretching toward him._

_The only way…._

_Take it!_

_Come, Jedi._

_Yes, come. Come with us._

_Take it, and be one of us…_

_One of us._

Within the tiny cell, lying loose limbed on the dirt, beaten and dying, Luke’s arm flopped onto the floor, hand open, fingers twitching, looking for connection.

He found it.

Another hand took his.

ooOOoo

A Princess of a dead world woke in her bed during ships night; torn from sleep with a feeling that something significant had just happened, something that would change everything.

She lay still, listening to the throb of the hyperspace engines and stared into the darkness of her lonely cabin, feeling unsettled and grieved. The weight of her losses…

_Han._

_Luke._

…settled heavy upon her and she turned onto her side and wept into her pillow.

ooOOoo

An Emperor stopped mid stride and held up a thin gnarled finger to silence his advisor. He turned away, looking out of the nearest window to the cityscape where night was falling, and lights began to dot the growing darkness.

Something had happened. Something of consequence and the Force resonated, vibrated, sang, with the turn of events.

“Contact Mustafar,” he barked to his lackeys, his mind turning inward, his vile spirit reaching outward. “I want an update on young Skywalker.”

ooOOoo

A small Jedi Master stood outside his hut in the pouring rain, his walking stick drawing lazy circles in the mud. He could feel his death step nearer, could feel the strength of his body failing. Each day brought the inevitable closer; may the Force grant him more time to finish his task.

He lifted his head and allowed the water to run over his skin as he opened himself to the Force.

“Master,” a voice came to him. A voice heavy with question.

“Felt it I did,” he told Obi-Wan, “Nexus, there is, within the Force.”

“We have lost him.”

Yoda closed his eyes, reaching as far into the Force as he dared lest he be felt and discovered by another. “Perhaps,” he agreed, “or perhaps found _him_ , he did.”

“Master,” Obi-Wan said from beside him, although the air remained empty of true substance. “I don’t understand.”

The Jedi chuckled and opened his eyes. “One with the Force you are, Obi-Wan. Wise and learned you are, and yet, eludes you the answer does.”

“And you have the answer, Master?”

Yoda shook his head, staring off into the jungle. “No, questions only. Strong this nexus is, Obi-Wan, the intent unclear, hidden within smoke.”

ooOOoo

To be continued...


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was only a matter of time before Mustafar claimed another Skywalker.

**Part Four**

His son lay on his back against the back wall, arms crossed in front of his bare chest, legs drawn up. A shiver rippled through him, a grimace of pain flickered across Luke’s face, pulling at the tight burn tissue. His body jerked; his leg kicked. He whispered nothings; words indistinct and lost to madness. His head shook from side to side; his eyes staring vacantly up.

“No…” A recognisable word. “No!”

Luke’s voice was dry, hoarse. He lifted his left hand, pressed it hard to his ear as though to block out sound, as though in denial of what he was hearing. The stump of his right remained pressed clutched against his body. It was blackened at the tip, red raw crusted and weeping fluid near the elbow and a sinister line of red infection trailed lazily into the upper tissue. 

“No... no more...”

Vader knew Luke was not speaking to him, knew that his son had not yet registered his presence. Luke was speaking to the darkness that whispered here; the ghouls, the remnants of long dead creatures that penetrated this place of terror and settled heavy within to torment and torture those who were incarcerated. 

The stronger the Jedi, the darker the delight, the greater the feast.

And Luke was so very strong.

It was only a matter of time before Mustafar claimed another Skywalker.

Bitter gall rose in his ruined throat and he started to turn away before his regret could better him.

“…not true… impossible… no… no…”

Vader stopped at the familiar words, the disbelief, the denial that had been torn from deep within his son’s fractured soul and thrown at him on Bespin.

His son’s horror at who his father was.

There was movement nearby as the Emperor’s guards closed in to take his son.

“Wait,” Vader growled, and he lowered the bulk of his body to his knees beside Luke. He hesitated, then reached into the Force and was instantly battered by emotions. A tumult, a gale, of sweeping feelings that threatened to sweep him to the floor beside his son.

He focused, steadied himself, and reached into Luke’s mind…

_…the winds blew, whipped at his hair…_

_It hurt, it hurt so much_

_Father_

_My father_

_My hand_

_My father took my hand…_

_Vader…_

_My father.._

_He’s my father…_

_Ben, ben!_

_Please…_

_“Luke, You do not yet realise your importance; you have only begun to discover your power. You can destroy the Emperor; he has foreseen this. It is your destiny. Join me, and we can rule the Galaxy as father and son!”_

_His hand…_

_He’s offering me his hand._

_My father_

_What do I do?_

_Please! What do I do?_

_Don’t want this._

_His hand._

_My hand._

_He took my hand._

_It’s so far down._

_So far._

_His hand_

_Or the fall_

_What do I do?_

_Accept or fall._

_“Come with me. It is the only way.”_

_I know!_

_I know what to do!_

_I know!_

And suddenly Vader was thrown from Luke, left with the same trailing sense of his child’s triumph that he had felt on Bespin when Luke had jumped.

Luke’s body twitched and Vader felt the ghouls crowd around them. They were hungry, so very hungry and Luke was so, so close.

Another twitch and Luke’s body relaxed, went limp and his hand fell onto the dirt and at that moment Vader knew what he had to do.

He took his son’s hand.

ooOOoo

Leia sat in the quiet of the deserted ship’s commissary. She was dressed in a simple grey jumpsuit and was curled up on one of the chairs, legs tucked under her with a cooling mug of caf cupped in her hands and an uneaten pastry sitting on a plate on the table. Behind her the view port showed distant stars and the shining white-blue radius of Rhen Var. They had been here for an hour, and were taking a risk by lingering longer, but Chewbacca and Lando were late for the rendezvous and she had insisted that they be given another hour.

Only another hour, and time was quickly ticking by. Leia had to quell her growing worry, push away the panic that she felt bubbling just under the surface. They would come, she told herself, they would be here. It was the Falcon, had to be, mechanical problems again.

“They’ll be here,” she whispered against the lip of her cup. “I know it. I feel it.”

She took a sip of her caf. It was bitter against her tongue. She swallowed and it churned in her otherwise empty belly, for how could she eat when she was waiting for word on Han.

Han. Who she missed as though a part of herself was gone from her. Han, who infuriated her as much as he delighted her. That lopsided grin, that infuriating optimism, his poor impulse control, and total selflessness.

She smiled into the cup. Of course, Han would totally deny that that last part. Even after returning to Yavin to help Luke he had waved it off as “protecting my investment.”

Luke.

“Dammit,” she cursed, angry at the direction of her thoughts.

Luke.

She immediately rejected the first thought that came to her mind. Denied it. No. It couldn’t be.

He couldn’t be.

Not Luke.

The very idea was unthinkable.

And here she was, thinking about it after all.

_“He’s Vader’s son.”_

Wedge’s words had circled her mind for weeks now. Weeks of denial, of anger, of feeling betrayed, of knowing just… _knowing_ … something about this didn’t ring true.

There was more to this. She could feel it.

She laughed silently, mirthlessly; she was starting to sound like a Jedi.

Like Luke.

They had gone round in circles. Wedge and Leia and Ackbar and Madine and Mon Mothma.

_“Tell us again, Captain Antilles,” Madine pressed, leaning forward, “tell us of the conversation between Vader and Commander Skywalker.”_

_Wedge sighed, huffed a breath, knuckled his eyes and started again; finishing with “Luke said… No, Luke screamed to me… it wasn’t what I was thinking.”_

_“What were you thinking at that moment?” Leia asked quietly, her stomach sick._

_Wedge looked at her, tired, dark eyed and grieving. “That he had betrayed us.”_

They had looked for evidence of course and searched intelligence trying to find that betrayal. There had been questions of course; Luke’s forays away from the Alliance on his own searches for knowledge of the Jedi, his run ins with Vader on Cymoon 1 and on Bespin, the latter of which had a deep and profound effect on him but, there had been no evidence of betrayal.

Questions of what was said between the two, but nothing to doubt Luke’s loyalty to the Alliance.

They had delved into Luke’s background.

Senator Mothma had remembered the Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker, whom Luke claimed was his father. Mothma had confirmed that there was a striking resemblance between the two and that the Jedi was highly likely Luke’s sire as he claimed. She and Luke had spent some time together as he had asked question after question of the once senator. Mothma had reported that Luke had appeared genuine in his desire to find out more about the “Hero with no fear.”

An investigator was sent to Tatooine to check out Luke’s “farm boy,” background and had reported back that Luke had indeed been raised by guardians from a young age on the farm. They had also been able to report from the slave registry on Tatooine that a slave called Shmi Skywalker had a son named Anakin who had been freed and Shmi had later been sold on to a moister farmer named Lars who had subsequently freed her and married her. They had lived on the farm that Luke would eventually call home.

_“It isn’t what you think!”_

Wedge had said Luke had screamed.

Screamed.

The belief of High Command now was that Anakin Skywalker had not been killed during the battle at the Jedi Temple, instead he had led the troopers into the sacred place. Anakin Skywalker was Darth Vader and the father of Luke Skywalker.

Luke Skywalker, who until Cymoon 1, had remained hidden and unknown to the Dark Lord. Luke Skywalker, who had only discovered his father’s identity after losing his hand to the man who sired him.

Antilles had been devasted by the findings. Distraught that he had turned against his friend and accused him of betrayal.

However, the damage was done. The pilot’s initial words to her in front of many had spread through the Alliance like wildfire.

Luke Skywalker was the son of Darth Vader.

Sithspawn.

Betrayer.

A nexu in a shaak skin.

Just because there was no evidence didn’t mean he was innocent.

_“If I ever get him in my crosshairs, I’m not hesitating…”_

And that last from one of Luke’s own squad, overheard as Leia had passed her in the hallway. There had been no doubt about whom she had speaking. Leia had walked on, head high, face impassive, stomach churning.

She sighed, heavily, sadly, and put her cup down on the table, glancing at the waiting pastry. She wasn’t hungry and didn’t know why she had lifted it.

For something to do, for something to take her mind off everything, didn’t sugar always help?

She pushed the plate away and unfurled herself from the chair, and stretched out her numb legs, wincing as the blood flowed again. It served her right for sitting in one position for so long and she briefly wondered if Han would suffer the same numbness when released from carbonite.

When…

If.

Her comlink squawked and she fished it out from her pocket acknowledging, “Organa.”

“Princess,” it was Wedge. “We have them on the comm. Chewie says to tell you that Fett has delivered his package and that he and Lando are incoming. He also says he’s starving.”

Leia laughed at that last and glanced at the pastry. “Tell them I’ll meet them in the hanger, and I’ll bring something for his stomach.”

She shut off the comlink a small smile remaining on her lips.

Han.

Fett had delivered Han to Jabba.

Now it was time to get him back.

ooOOoo

Blades clashed. Red on Green. Feet danced on the floor; one pair light and bare, the other heavier and booted.

The hum of lightsabers, the patter and clump of feet, the soft grunts, gasped breaths and regulated suck hiss of a ventilator where the only sounds.

Luke parried another heavy strike, pushed back, his left arm straining to hold against Vader’s double gripped blow. The Dark Lord leaned in, lending more weight against his son’s single handed hold and Luke’s knees began to buckle under the pressure, sweat ran in rivulets down his face.

The two blades squealed together, Vader’s sliding down Luke’s toward the hilt.

With a cry of anger and frustration Luke dropped, raised his stump of right arm and sent a push through the force. His father staggered a step back; it wasn’t much but it gave Luke an opening to roll to the side and away from Vader’s blade.

“You are weak,” Vader rumbled stalking forward, lightsaber held so low it cut furrows into the floor, finger of his free hand pointing.

Luke used his elbows and feet to scrabble backward as quickly as he could, cursing the unevenness of the floor; the old saber gashes that had left sharp ridges that now dug into his bare skin.

His hand cramped and he slightly loosened his tight grip on the sword hilt; a sword his father had given him to use. Blue bladed, balanced, hand grip wrapped in leather. It had been taken from a fallen Jedi.

Apt.

“Then let me heal,” Luke grated back, as he picked himself up and gained his feet with a pained grunt. He held the stump of his arm to his body. It was shorter now, lost from just above his elbow after his father’s surgeon droids had removed more of the arm to cut away the infection that had been killing him. He held the Jedi’s lightsaber before him, defensively.

“Use your pain,” Vader commanded, “use it to make you stronger, use it to strengthen your hatred for those who have betrayed you.”

“Betrayed me?” Luke rasped, incredulously. “You mean you?! Oh father, it would be so easy to hate you.”

His father attacked, another brutal strike and Luke only just caught it in time. Blades clashed red on blue in this black place. Vader feigned a lunge, pulled back as Luke staggered back, his saber caught Luke’s and he easily circled his wrist and tore the lightsaber from Luke’s hand, just as he had on Bespin at the beginning of their duel.

The saber skittered across the floor.

But this was not Bespin and Luke had learned, he centred himself, ready to dodge when his father followed through.

Vader lowered his sword, disengaged the blade and the hall was silent apart from Luke’s gasping breathing and Vader’s own respiration.

The combatants regarded one another; Vader studying his son and reluctant pupil, Luke cautious and wary of his father and captor.

“You are learning,” Vader said at last.

Luke swallowed a laugh, snarled back, “Is that a compliment, father?”

 _And why did he feel a sliver of pride at Vader’s words_?

Vader ignored his son’s biting comment, but he relished the small spark of satisfaction that he felt from his son. Despite his best efforts to resist Luke was responding to Mustafar, to the punishing training and to his father. The dark side of the Force had nestled within Luke, it was a dark light within, a flicker in gusting wind, but it was there and when given fuel it rose and roared.

Truly darkness suited his son.

Luke would be magnificent.

_You’re going down a path I cannot follow…_

Fury reared at the unexpected echo from the past and he raised his hand, once more pointing at his…

_her_

…child. “But you still have much to learn,” He continued and the anger in his voice caused Luke to step back. “You were betrayed by your friends, disavowed by the rebellion and yet you hold onto them still.”

Luke steadied himself, centred his balance, risked a glance to the side where his saber had landed, then he raised his chin, “No father,” he said still breathing heavily, “you betrayed me. You brought me here, you left me to the ghouls of this place, you…”

and then he moved just as his father did.

Both lifted their hands towards the sword lying on the floor; Luke to pull it to himself, Vader to push it away from his son. The hilt vibrated on the floor, spun around.

Luke laughed, and jumped sideways towards Vader lifting both legs, using the Force for additional strength and powered his feet into Vader’s side, pulling a grunt from the Dark Lord as he stumbled and they fell to the floor tangled together. Luke was lighter, quicker; he extricated himself from the folds of his father’s cape and rolled away, climbing to his feet as the lightsaber slapped into his outstretched palm. It shone blue.

He stood, grinning, over his prone father, blade held loosely down by his side mimicking, perhaps mocking, his father’s previous stances.

The doors to the training hall swept open and a crowd of red robed guards swarmed into the area, their weapons held ready, humming, and sparking with intent, as they surrounded Luke.

Luke’s grin widened, eyes flashing, reddened burn scars tugging tight at the side of his face. He centred himself, took a breath as his father climbed to his feet and moved out of the circle, and out of the hall, without a glance or another word; leaving Luke surrounded and alone.

Luke watched the guards, tightened, and loosed his fingers around the hilt of the lightsaber, feeling its power through his flesh. He waited, balancing on the balls of his feet, listening for movement, feeling the tension within the Force.

This was going to hurt.

ooOOoo

**Author's Note:**

> I do admit that the story has been rushed, it is not beta read, and my writing remains quite rusty after my long period of writers block. Apologies.
> 
> Part 2 will be posted as soon I can get it finished and polished.


End file.
